


Breaking Point

by Darth_Pancake



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Abandonment, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anxiety, Arcee has PTSD, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Cortical Psychic Patch, Dark, Deceptisnark, Depression, Don't trust any of them, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Internal Conflict, Mental Breakdown, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Minor Character(s), Not Happy, Not much Comfort though, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Ratchet feels, Seriously all of the narrators are unreliable, Starscream as leader, Starscream being Starscream, Starscream enjoys himself, Starscream is bad with femmes, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Tags May Change, Team Stream, Team as Family, The Author Regrets Everything, Unreliable Narrator, Well not everyone, everyone has a bad time, literally everything goes wrong
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23450302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darth_Pancake/pseuds/Darth_Pancake
Summary: It was a fool’s hope. A mistake. He should never have suggested boarding the warship; Optimus would have never sanctioned it. But in his panic, his desperate ferver, he rolled the dice. He gambled, and he lost. They hadn’t counted on Starscream’s treachery, hadn’t considered that Megatron was only alive because Soundwave refused to let him die. But Knockout was there, plotting, scheming, and ever-loyal Soundwave allowed it to happen. The world came undone in the span of a solar cycle, and Ratchet was powerless to stop it.In one timeline, Soundwave notices a cord connecting Bumblebee's mind to Megatron's. In one timeline, everyone survives the cortical psychic patch. In one timeline, Bumblebee and Optimus come home.In another, they don't. This is that universe.
Relationships: Arcee & Bulkhead (Transformers), Arcee & Jack Darby, Arcee & Ratchet (Transformers), Arcee & Wheeljack (Transformers), Bulkhead & Miko Nakadai, Flamewar & Knock Out, Flamewar/Shadow Striker, Knock Out & Starscream (Transformers), Miko Nakadai & Wheeljack, Optimus Prime & Ratchet, Rafael "Raf" Esquivel & Ratchet, Ratchet & Team Prime (Transformers: Prime), Slipstream/Starscream (Transformers)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 46





	1. Autobot's Ballad

**Author's Note:**

> So... I don't really have much to say about this. It starts out all nice and normal, but it gets real dark real fast. Everyone dying at the beginning isn't even half of how bad this story gets. Let's just say... trigger warning? Do people still do that? I don't know if people still do that. I'm out of touch. Just know that the last story I wrote was a feel-good fic, and this one definitely isn't. No one is happy here. Not me, not Bulkhead, not Arcee, and certainly not Ratchet. Poor guy.
> 
> Anyway, the same units of time from last story apply here too:
> 
> Astrosecond: one second (real creative, Hasbro)  
> Klik: one minute  
> Cycle: one hour  
> Solar cycle: one day  
> Deca cycle: one week  
> Orbital cycle: one month  
> Stellar cycle: one year  
> Vorn: 83 years

Ratchet had known Optimus Prime for a long time. Longer than most, really, and certainly longer than anyone else on Earth. They’d been through a lot together. Four million stellar cycles of war, countless battles, skirmishes, grand victories, horrific defeats. They’d seen each other through thick and thin. They’d lost friends, colleagues, allies, family. And yet, they’d always walked away. When others fell, they stood tall, and Optimus led them to victory. He’d seemed infallible, impervious, undefeatable. Ratchet always had the utmost confidence in the former archivist's ability to lead, to fight, to  _ survive.  _ Optimus was the strongest warrior, the perfect leader, and the best of friends. 

It was why, even after they’d visited that awful plague ship, Ratchet held on to the fleeting hope that he would once again do the impossible and overcome his terrible affliction. He’d seen the Prime work wonders before, after all. He’d survived things that should have been impossible. Optimus was a master of weaving the threads of reality, of managing the supernatural. There was no other way to put it. His constant survival against all odds was magical, awe-inspiring. Surely the cybonic plague, no matter how dangerous, could not accomplish what even Megatron fell short of. Surely, after so many long vorns of battle and struggle, the legend of Optimus Prime would not end on some backwater dustball due to a disease. 

And truly, he’d tried his damndest to do something,  _ anything,  _ for his old friend. But there was a reason the Cybonic Plague was so notorious amongst Cybertron’s medical community. It was no ordinary disease. It was a madman’s science project, the product of Megatron’s sadistic and twisted mind. There was no known cure, despite the efforts of thousands of Autobots over the course of millions of stellar cycles. To believe that he could do in a matter of minutes what he and all his most esteemed colleagues could not do in vorns was… foolish. It was pitiful, nothing more than the desperate hope of a desperate mech. But he had to try something, and anything was better than just sitting around.

He knew that his efforts would be fruitless after no more than half a cycle. The disease was already embedded deep within his friend’s nervous system, and it responded to his every attempt at dislodging it by evolving, adapting. It was then, as he was on the verge of giving in to despair, that another idea came to him: if this was a Decepticon virus, then perhaps the Decepticons would have a cure. They still had the location of their warship, after all. Arcee was quick to jump on the idea, seemingly ready to do anything to save their leader. She’d taken Bumblebee and vanished into a ground bridge, ready to do her part. 

That was nearly twenty kliks ago. Now, Ratchet was doing the one thing he swore he would never do: he was standing idly by as other ‘bots did all the work. He, Bulkhead, and the children were watching live on their monitor as Bumblebee worked his way through the inner layers of Megatron’s twisted mind, searching for a cure that may not exist. They stayed in touch with Arcee through their usual comlink system. He was thankful, for once, that he remained at the base; at least here, he could observe Bumblebee’s progress. Arcee could do nothing but watch and wait, both of which were things Ratchet knew she was bad at. He couldn’t blame her. If he was in her position, he would likely be even more antsy than she was. It was one thing to be helpless as your best friend faded away to nothing, but it was another entirely to be clueless as well. Knowledge was power, after all, and it was the powerful that could change things. It was the powerful that saved lives. 

Ratchet only hoped that the limited power he had would be enough to save his friend.

\--

Forget the arctic or the equator. As far as Arcee was concerned, the  _ Nemesis  _ was the most hostile environment on Earth. Sure, you could freeze to death or melt in its more natural competitors, but neither of those places were swarmed with Decepticons. The  _ Nemesis, _ on the other hand, was. Considering that, the two-wheeler was amazed that the section of the ship she was in–the lab–was empty as it was. Megatron was hooked up on spark support not but a meter in front of her, and yet there were no guards. Even Knockout, the ‘con’s crazy medic, was MIA. If she could afford the luxury of skepticism, which she definitely  _ couldn’t,  _ she’d let her paranoia get the best of her and say it was too easy, that something was off. Considering the circumstances, though, Arcee decided that she’d just count it as luck and tried not to think too cynically. 

It was hard. Really, it was. Bumblebee hadn’t moved for about twenty klicks, now, and she was starting to get worried. Cortical psychic patches were dangerous things. She knew that from a near-fatal run-in with Shockwave back on Cybertron. But this was a completely different playing field. Shockwave had been rough, but precise and careful. She’d survived because he was disinterested, because he felt like she was a waste of his time, because he didn't care whether she lived or  died. In that area, Bumblebee had it better. The ‘bot managing his link actually cared to keep him alive when the time came to pull him out. 

The patch itself wasn’t what scared her, though. She’d been dealing with a bored scientist who felt like Starscream was distracting him from more important things. Bumblebee, on the other hand, was connected to Megatron himself. He was violent, he was powerful, and his will was famously unrivaled. Only Optimus had ever been able to tangle with Megatron, and even he was occasionally outmatched. Arcee could only imagine how powerful his mind would be when put up against someone as young as Bumblebee, and the thought made her cringe. She was worried for him, afraid for him, but even though she hated what he had to do, she knew there was no one better for the job. Certainly not her, at least. There was a reason she was so reluctant to use the patch on herself, and that’s because she knew her limits. Megatron would chew her up and spit her out, and the only thing left of her would be a bad taste in his mouth. Bumblebee was a better choice for the patch. He had less chinks in the metaphorical armor, less mental weaknesses and traumas to exploit. That didn’t mean she had to like it, though. 

She checked her chronometer. It’d been half a cycle, now. Optimus probably didn’t have much time left, and who knew how long it would be before the ‘cons came knocking? “Come on, ‘Bee,” she said worriedly. “What are you doing in there?”

Bumblebee didn’t answer. He stayed still as a statue, optics blank and empty. She wasn’t expecting a response, but it worried her anyway. It wasn’t supposed to take this long. He should have been done by now. They were still on the Decepticon warship, for spark’s sake! Anyone could just walk through the med-bay doors!

And then, someone walked through the med-bay doors. Arcee turned to see who it was and immediately pulled herself back, ducking down low and pressing herself against the wall. It figured that their luck would burn out in the worst way possible. Three Decepticons entered the med-bay: Starscream, Knockout, and Soundwave. The first two weren’t the most dangerous; she knew she could take them if things got dicey. But Soundwave… Soundwave was a completely different beast. She knew the stories. She’d seen them happen in real time. The only Cynertronian, Autobot or Decepticon, to ever defeat Soundwave in battle was Megatron himself. She wasn’t a match for him. 

“Knockout, if you would be so kind as to provide your expert medical opinion to Soundwave… for the historical record.”

Starscream’s sinister voice drew her in, and she listened with growing horror as he and Knockout began to explain to Soundwave just how wonderful it would be if they let Megatron die. A simple flip of the switch, they said. It would be merciful.

//”Ratchet,”// she whispered, horrible fear lacing her tone. //”Are you hearing this?”//

//”If Megatron perishes, Bumblebee’s mind will be separated from his body… forever.”// Left unsaid was something they both knew: that if Bumblebee failed, Optimus was doomed. 

Arcee let those grave, awful, daming words sink in before she made a decision. If the situation was any less dire, she might have appreciated the irony of it: a group of Autobots was trying to save Megatron’s life from his own officers. As she propped herself up to attack the Decepticons, she felt a sudden clarity wash over her. She was very likely going to die saving someone she’d spent most of her life fighting to destroy. It was almost funny, really, but only in the same dark way that Optimus dying from disease after so many intense battles was funny. The humor probably only worked for a niche crowd. 

“Soundwave, do I take your silence to mean you concur with Knockout’s medical expertise?” Starscream asked, voice dripping with venomous honey. “Speak now, or forever hold your peace.”

Soundwave said nothing. The air commander reached for the pump plugged into Megatron’s chest, the one keeping his spark active. He grasped it firmly, shifting it so that he could pull it out. His sinister red eyes never left Soundwave’s visor. “Going… going…” He tugged at it once, twice. 

Soundwave said nothing. 

//”Arcee, do something! Please!”// Ratchet shouted, nearly begged. He sounded the most panicked she’d ever heard him. His stress and obvious despair only added to her own. Arcee had once been one of the most elite soldiers in the Autobot army. She’d travelled with Ultra Magnus, battled ‘cons with Optimus long before they came to Earth, taken on Shockwave, Slipstream, Onslaught, and always came out on top. The key to every mission, she’d always said, always been told, was to not dwell on the odds. The outcome doesn’t matter so long as you finish the job. 

She’d always been good at that. Finishing the job. 

Starscream pulled on the cord a third time, like he was enjoying himself.

Soundwave said nothing. 

The cord began to slip. 

And then, Arcee opened fire. 

Blue bolts of hot Energon streaked through the air, burning, hungry,  _ eager. _ The effect was instantaneous; none of the Decepticons were expecting the sudden barrage of Autobot fury, not in the heart of their own warship. Starscream squawked and stumbled backwards, releasing his hold on Megatron’s spark support. Knockout dove for cover behind the grey mech’s berth, hands over his head. Soundwave, meanwhile, was surprised for the first and last time. The spymaster sank to the ground with two melted holes in his chest. He collapsed to one knee, struggled, attempted to rise, and a third shot blasted him in the throat, just below his visor. He fell backwards with a loud  _ ‘thud’  _ and lay sprawled on the ground in an unceremonious heap. He did not move again. 

Arcee had no time to celebrate her victory over one of the most feared ‘cons in the galaxy. Already, Starscream was on his feet, a missile aimed at her chest. “How did you get here?!” he demanded, paying no mind to his fallen ally. Knowing him, he didn’t really care. 

The two-wheeler leapt from her cover and kept the seeker’s attention, trying to shelter Bumblebee from his attacks. It worked; the missile sailed over her head, far from the scout, and slammed into the med-bay door. It exploded violently, launching jagged debris and flaming wreckage out into the hall. The femme paid it no mind; Starscream was raising his other arm for a second attack, and she had to move. “You should never have come here, Autobot!” he crowed, and another missile shot forth. “You may have slagged Soundwave, but you’ll find that I’m far harder to scrap!”

The explosion hit closer to home that time, causing her dodge to be a lot less graceful than usual. She hit the ground hard and came up in a roll, wincing but still full of bite. Both of her blasters were pointed directly at the seeker as he attempted to bring his own cannons to bear. “I don’t think so,” she said, and she fired. The blasts struck true: one hit him in the chest, another in the leg, and another shot his right arm clean off. Starscream screeched in pain and fell backwards. Arcee made to finish him off, but was completely blindsided by Knockout, who lunged at her with his buzzsaws out and roaring. The two crashed to the ground and rolled as the Autobot femme tried to avoid having her face removed. 

“I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” he grinned, pushing the saw with all his strength down towards Arcee’s throat. She grunted and bucked her hips with all her might, throwing him off of her. “Call me Arcee,” she said, stepping forwards. Her blasters vanished into shifting metal, replaced by her hands once more. She extended her arm blades when they were gone and dropped into a combat stance. 

Knockout smirked and rose back to his feet. He too replaced his weapon, swapping out his saw. Instead of changing something else, though, he reached into his subspace and pulled out a huge, electric staff. Its ends crackled with the same kind of dangerous energy that raced through the mad doctor’s eyes, and he pointed it at her menacingly. “I can’t say it’s a pleasure, Arcee,” he said. “You’re interrupting a big ceremony, you know.”

“Terminating Megatron?” she demanded. 

Knockout shrugged. “The big M hasn’t been home for awhile,” he said casually. “We were just… turning off the lights. Saves us the Energon of keeping him around. Besides, if he isn’t going to wake up, what difference does it make whether or not he’s pushing up lugnuts? You Autobots should appreciate what we were about to do more than anyone!”

Arcee growled and charged him, bringing her blades to bear and catching his staff. She parried it to the side and swung a fist into his jaw, causing the medic to stumble. He rubbed at his face and grunted angrily. “You  _ really  _ shouldn’t have done that,” he seethed. “You think a finish like mine comes cheap?!”

“I think you overpaid,” she shot back, which seemed to really grind Knockout's gears. He abandoned all tact in favor of aggressively swinging his staff at her head. The femme backed up, blocking and dodging as often as she could, waiting for an opening. They were in the middle of the room, performing a beautifully deadly dance. Anyone watching could have been captivated; both opponents were graceful and displayed a clear mastery of their craft. Knockout’s Energon staff crackled with angry energy each time it was blocked by Arcee’s blades, which moved easily and diligently to meet it. It was clear that whoever slipped up first would lose the fight. 

And then, Knockout made the first mistake. Their battleground wasn't exactly clean, and he wasn't watching his step. Arcee was. She maneuvered the fight closer and closer to where Soundwave's body lay still, and just as she'd hoped, Knockout slipped. She didn't know what he'd stepped on–it could have been an arm, a leg, frag, even his face–but she capitalized on the mistake anyway. The medic fell forwards and her fist pulled back. One deceptively brutal punch later, Knockout was knocked out. She felt satisfied for all of two seconds before a voice spoke from behind.

"So  _ this  _ is why you interfered, Arcee." 

Starscream. Arcee whipped around to face her enemy, but stopped dead in her tracks. The seeker stood between Megatron and Bumblebee, holding the cord that connected their processors. And he looked very,  _ very  _ satisfied with his discovery. Even with only one arm, Starscream proved to be a problem. 

The two-wheeler was quick to sheath her blades and reignite her blasters, but the Decepticon was faster. He dropped the cord, and a missile extended from his remaining arm. He aimed it, but not at her. A sinister smirk adorned his sleek face. "Surrender, or Megatron loses what little brain matter he has left. And you can say goodbye to your precious Bumblebee while you're at it."

_ Scrap.  _ Arcee held his gaze for another few seconds before relenting, dropping her weapons. She glared at him, trying to put all of her anger and desperation into one scathing look. Starscream didn’t seem overly bothered. His stupid smirk remained firmly in place. “I knew you would see reason,” he said. “Now, why don’t you go stand over by Soundwave like a good little Autobot while I-”

He didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence. A ground bridge boomed to life right behind him. Both Starscream and Arcee turned towards it in shock, and as they did, a massive green fist materialized and smashed itself into the seeker’s face. He yelped and stumbled, losing his aim on Megatron in the process. Arcee took the chance to bring her weapons back out, but it was obvious that she wasn’t needed. Bulkhead emerged in full from the portal, and he pounded Starscream. Both his hands were replaced with his signature wrecking balls, and he made good use of them. The seeker never even had a chance. One final hit knocked him all the way across the med-bay, where he groaned and sunk to the floor beside Knockout, who was just regaining consciousness. 

Arcee kept an eye on him; Starscream was deceptively durable, and he had a nasty habit of getting back up when his opponent had their back turned. Bulkhead came to stand at her side, grinning sheepishly. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, “but Ratchet said I’d break Megatron worse than ‘Scream ever could.” The femme skeptically raised an optic ridge. That sounded a little too complimentary for Ratchet, and judging by the embarrassed look on Bulkhead’s face, he knew it. 

“Well, he didn’t  _ exactly  _ say that,” he admitted. 

Arcee rolled her optics and smiled. Same old Bulkhead. The big lug was never graceful, not with his feet and definitely not with his words. “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “I appreciate the assist.”

“Ah, don't mention it. I’m just sorry I missed most of the party.”

At their feet, Starscream groaned and opened his eyes. Knockout did the same. The Autobots stared down at their enemies. Arcee couldn’t say she felt bad for them, but the idea of killing them while they were so helpless didn’t really appeal to her. Bulkhead seemed to share the sentiment. “What do we do with them?” he asked. 

“We  _ could  _ take them back to base,” Arcee suggested smugly, prodding Knockout’s shoulder with her pede. “Without Megatron and Soundwave, these two are pretty much all the ‘cons have. Taking them prisoner is a surefire way to end the war.”

“Don’t count on it!” Starscream growled. The wounded air commander spit globs of Energon onto the ground in front of him. If looks could kill, the Autobots would be dead. Starscream’s glare was full of hate and vindictive malice. “Any moment now, my legions will storm this place and scrap you both!” 

_ Oh, right. We’re on the Decepticon warship.  _ She’d almost forgotten during all the commotion. Arcee narrowed her optics and turned away, walking back towards Megatron. “Keep an eye on them.”

Bulkhead nodded and swapped out one of his wrecking balls, holding it over Starscream’s head. The seeker whimpered. 

Satisfied that the ‘cons were secured, Arcee turned her attention to other things. //”Ratchet, someone’s bound to notice Starscream’s absence soon. How’s ‘Bee doing?//

//”He is… negotiating with Megatron. He’s doing his best. Just try and hold out a little longer. I’ll let you know when something changes.”//

The femme sighed. So much for getting away before Decepticon reinforcements arrived. //“Understood. Arcee out.”//

//“Base out.”//

The astrosecond the call disconnected, something went wrong. Arcee felt it before it happened; the back of her neck tingled uncomfortably, like someone was watching her, like something was about to go wrong. And then, a pained shout sounded from behind. A pit of sudden, unexplained dread formed in her gut as she whipped around, blasters drawn, only to see Bulkhead keeling over, Energon dripping from his chin. Starscream had an intense, scathing smile on his face as he swiped again at the wrecker, plunging his claws into his gut. 

A lot of things happened at once. 

Knockout cowered in the background, screeching, “Have you gone  _ mad?!” _

Bulkhead staggered backwards, reeling from the seeker’s unexpected attack. 

Starscream himself rose triumphantly, aiming a missile. Arcee fired, and so did he. 

Her shot landed. As her enemy fell back to the ground, clutching his shoulder, she realized with horror that his did too.

Bulkhead was fine. Arcee was fine. But behind them, smoldering in fire and ruin, were the remains of Megatron. Starscream’s aim was true: the imposing figure of the dark lord was now coated in ash. His spark support cables were completely gone, either knocked loose or incinerated by the impact. There was a gaping crater in his chest. 

Her optics widened. Her jaw dropped. The death of Megatron should have brought joy. It should have brought satisfaction. It should have mustered something,  _ anything  _ positive. But Arcee could only feel a numb sense of horror as the warlord’s spark extinguished before her eyes. The world seemed to swirl, to rise and fall. She fell to her knees, processor whirling, too many things demanding her attention at once. Nothing was in focus. She barely registered the sounds of approaching pedesteps, of blaster fire, of the enraged roaring of Bulkhead, who sounded angrier than she’d ever heard him. She barely registered Starscream’s frantic pleas and shouted orders, barely noticed a pair of Vehicons put their guns to her head. 

Nothing registered. Nothing made sense. 

She felt Bulkhead grab her and pull her against his chest like she was a sparkling in need of protection. She felt, rather than saw, a ground bridge open in front of her. And then, Bulkhead wasn’t holding her anymore, and she was flying through the air, directly into the swirling green vortex. 

When she opened her optics again, Ratchet was standing over her, panic in his eyes. Bulkhead was clutching his arm in front of her, quietly grieving. Jack was clutching her hand, tears streaking down his face. Raf was openly sobbing, his face buried in Miko’s arms. The ground bridge closed behind him. Off to the side, slumped against the wall, was Bumblebee’s lifeless body. 

“What happened?” Ratchet demanded, voice cracky and distraught. “Arcee, what happened?”

The two-wheeler slowly sat up, barely containing herself. Her emotions welled up to the surface, and for one scary moment threatened to completely overtake her, to unleash all her grief, rage, fear, and disgust at once. After all, why shouldn’t she? Why shouldn’t she let them all know just how she was feeling? How everything that’d just happened could have been avoided? In that moment, surrounded by her grieving friends, she nearly did just that.

Instead, she bowed her head, averting her eyes. “We lost,” she whispered hoarsely, quietly. “Starscream snuffed Megatron.” Her voice cracked, and she tried to keep herself together for just a few kliks more. “He… he interrupted the patch.”

She didn’t say anything else. She didn’t need to. Bulkhead closed his eyes and turned away, as if hearing the truth he already knew was too much to bear. Ratchet stumbled back like she’d punched him. Raf cried harder, if that was at all possible. 

_ Failure. Murderer. Could have done more, could have done better- _

Arcee felt ready to burst at the seams, but she stayed calm, stayed quiet for Jack’s sake. For Raf. For Miko. 

As Ratchet pulled away, racing for Optimus’s berth, she stayed still. Jack was so small next to her, eyes red and miserable, and he wrapped his arms around one of her own in a hug. She picked him up and held him against her shoulder, giving the human all the support she could muster. 

Cliffjumper would have said that it wasn’t her fault, that there wasn’t anything she could have done differently. She knew that if he could speak, Optimus would agree. But Cliffjumper wasn’t here. Optimus probably wouldn’t be around for much longer. And as she sat on the floor, grief tearing holes in her spark, she looked to Bumblebee’s empty body. His dull, lifeless optics bore holes through her own, and she remembered just how young he was. He’d told her once that he was excited to be on Earth, excited to be around so many different colors and things. He told her that he was going to prove himself as a warrior on this planet. He’d been soft, energetic, kind.

When he’d been alive, his words had always been gentle and affectionate. He’d always reminded her of her accomplishments, that she was worth caring about, that she mattered. In death, he reminded her only of her failures. It reminded her of something Airachnid had said right after she’d crashed on Earth:  _ “At some point, you have to ask yourself: is it them, or is it me?” _

Arcee knew the answer to that question, now. Bumblebee’s empty eyes told her that it was her fault, her failure.

She couldn’t find it within herself to disagree.


	2. None Shall Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet and Optimus have a spark to spark. Bulkhead moms the kids. Team Prime falls apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter hurt to write. Ratchet's gonna have a hell of a time in this fic, folks. Only one 'bot will have it as bad as he does, but... you don't get to know who that is yet ;)
> 
> Also, I forgot that the TFP crew communicates in Earth time, so the Cybertronian units I included in chapter one probably won't be reappearing until Wheeljack or the Decepticons show up. And while yes, I know that the 'cons use Earth time too, I don't really know why they'd do that, so they'll speak in Cybertronian units.

Ratchet knew something was wrong the moment Bumblebee’s feed turned to static. He assumed that it wasn’t the fault of his technology. Even if it did incorporate pieces of primitive human mechanics, it should still be fully functional. A quick system diagnostic confirmed that no, nothing disrupted their connection on a technical level. That meant something happened on the  _ Nemesis.  _ Something physical. Something very potentially… bad. He tried to ignore the panic that rose at the thought of an early disconnection. If the Decepticons found them, if Arcee decided to take Bumblebee and flee, Optimus was doomed. 

None of the others seemed to grasp the situation as quickly as he did. In particular, the smartest of them seemed confused. “Uh, Ratchet?” Rafael asked uncertainly, “what happened to ‘Bee?”

“Yeah, where’d the movie go?” Miko complained. 

“Miko!” Jack scolded. 

“What?” she demanded. 

“Don’t you think that’s a little inappropriate?”

“Don’t you think your  _ face  _ is inappropriate?”

Their squabbling broke the last of his restraint, and he turned from his console, blazing fire in his eyes. “Will you puh-lease keep it down?!” he shouted. “I’m in a crisis situation, and you’re squabbling like… like… like children!”

The humans all stared at him for a moment as he realized what exactly he just said. 

“Dude,” Miko said, deadpan. “We  _ are  _ children. Raf’s like, eight.”

“Twelve,” the boy muttered.

With a huff, Ratchet turned back to his console, electing to try his best to ignore them. The last thing he needed during the middle of this particularly dangerous situation was a distraction, and if he was going to get one anyway, he would have to tune it out. Fortunately, after spending so much time couped up in a base with Bumblebee, he’d gotten rather adept at ignoring loud sounds.

The first thing he tried were the comms. If it truly was a physical disruption, as he feared, then Arcee or Bulkhead could tell him what happened. Just like the video feed, though, all he got from the other end of the comlink was static. It was unnerving. //”Arcee?”// he tried. 

Nothing. 

//”Bulkhead?”//

Again, nothing. 

“What’s going on?” Jack asked.

“I’m not sure,” Ratchet replied grimly, “but I’m going to find out.”

He moved away from the computer, away from the children, away from all his systems–and activated the ground bridge. A swirling green portal ripped through the fabric of space and time to appear in its generated spot. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t have doubts about this plan, but the time for second-guessing had long passed. Now was the time for action. 

“Wait for me here,” he instructed, stepping towards the vortex. He took a breath, something unnecessary yet comforting for Cybertronians, and extended both of his blades. “If I do not return within five minutes, close the ground bridge behind me. It will most likely mean that I have been captured or snuffed.”

“Wait, you’re just going to leave us here?” Jack protested. “What about Optimus?”

“Optimus will  _ perish  _ if Bumblebee doesn’t get that cure,” Ratchet replied somberly. “My presence will not change that fact. Besides, your concern is hardly warranted. I am perfectly capable of handling myself in the field.”

He wouldn't get that chance, though. Just as he reached the portal, something small and blue flew out of it at a ridiculous speed. When it hit the ground in front of the vortex, he realized just what it was. 

Jack shouted her name, but Ratchet wasn’t paying attention. He was already too focused on the downed femme, lowering himself to one knee with a medical scanner in hand. This awful day only seemed to keep getting worse. Even as he ran the device over Arcee's body, watching hopefully as it displayed her vitals as stable, her spark-beat as steady, he reflected that she wouldn’t have been taken out easily, and that Bumblebee may be in danger. “She’s alive,” he announced, rising to his feet, “but I-”

He was cut off as someone boomed, “Close the bridge!”

Ratchet turned back to the portal in time to see Bulkhead charging forwards, carrying a limp Bumblebee in his arms. Red blaster fire followed him through, spraying the base’s walls and supports. Miko tackled both of the human boys to the ground as some of the searing red plasma passed over their heads. 

“Ratchet!” Bulkhead roared, “the bridge! Now!”

The medic, still shocked, nodded hastily and ran for the bridge controls, leaping for them and deactivating it faster than he ever had before. It whined as it lost power, and as it finally gave out, so did Bulkhead’s legs. He collapsed to the ground, shaking the entire complex as he did. He gently set Bumblebee to the side. 

All the kids were on their feet but none of them were talking, which Ratchet would have noted as uncharacteristic if he didn’t have far more pressing matters to attend to. He ran to Bulkhead’s side, outpacing Jack, who had taken the stairs to get to Arcee. Raf was staring mutely at Bumblebee’s still frame, lip curling, and Miko had a hand over her mouth. 

“Bulkhead! What happened?” he demanded, stopping in front of Bumblebee and once again activating his scanner. The big lug didn’t answer, not that he needed to; unlike Arcee, the scanner said nothing positive about their scout. Ratchet hung his head in grief as it beeped a negative, and above him, he heard Rafael choke out a sob. Bumblebee was… deceased, but… but perhaps it happened after he disconnected! Perhaps their brave scout managed to get the formula from Megatron!

One look at Bulkhead told him all he needed to know. The wrecker looked more distraught than Ratchet had ever seen him, and he shook his head without saying a word. The medic’s processor began to speed up, frantic ideas pouring from every corner of his overworked mind. Bulkhead was wrong, he had to be! Arcee was with Bumblebee the longest–perhaps she would know! She must! Bumblebee must have given the cure to her!

Quickly, he turned away from his fallen friend. There was no time to grieve–no, that came later, after Optimus was secure. He had to find out what Arcee knew, and so he loomed over her as she slowly came to. Her optics opened groggily, but he didn’t give her any time to recover. There wasn’t any time to give. “What happened?” he demanded. When she didn’t immediately answer, he repeated his question, only louder and more frantic. “Arcee, what happened?!”

She took a moment–maybe yelling at someone just regaining their senses wasn’t the best way to get information–but when she spoke, it was in the quietest, most fragile voice he’d ever heard her use. “We lost,” she said hoarsely. “Starscream snuffed Megatron. He… he interrupted the patch.”

Ratchet’s world imploded on itself as he staggered away from the femme. He said nothing else to her, didn’t even spare her a glance, and ran towards Optimus as fast as he could. He’d been waiting for Megatron to die for millions of years, and now that it finally happened, it made him want to cry. That was… that was it. All his hopes had been riding on Arcee’s report, deluded and dwindling as they were. Her words spelled the end of Optimus, of the war, of the Autobot cause. His best friend, his oldest friend, lay dying on a berth right next to him, and he couldn’t do anything about it. With Bumblebee and Megatron gone, any chance at curing the cybonic plague was lost. 

That wouldn’t stop him from trying, though. There had to be something he could do, something he missed earlier, something that no ‘bot had ever tried before. He had to work, had to try, had to do everything possible until either Optimus’s spark gave out or he did. 

He accessed his monitor and again brought up an analysis of the virus. Developed over the course of millions of years by thousands of scientists and doctors, it was the most thorough detailing of the cybonic plague ever created. Ratchet himself had added a great deal of information to the list, though that wasn’t anything special. Most medics who encountered the virus and lived to tell about it ended up adding their failed treatments to its collective analysis. He’d done so recently: every treatment he had available to him had already been tried, errored, and inserted into the file. 

Just as he was about to deduce which treatments listed should be second-guessed and restested, Optimus opened his eyes. “Ratchet,” he mumbled softly, wearily, “you… are looking… at the chart… again. Was… the mission… successful?”

The medic bowed his head. Under normal circumstances, he would have avoided eye contact with his leader out of shame. But these were trying times, and would very likely be the last time Optimus’s optics ever shone again, so he looked at his friend and admitted, “No, it was not. Optimus, I- I’m so sorry. I failed you.”

The Prime closed his eyes, leaning back in his berth. He did not seem disappointed or upset, which Ratchet knew wasn’t fair. He’d just been told that he was going to die, that there was nothing any ‘bot alive in the galaxy could do for him, and he was being passive about it. It… it was wrong! He wanted for Optimus to yell at him, to be angry with him, to do  _ something  _ to make him pay for failing. But he didn’t. Like always, he didn’t. In fact, he did the opposite; after just a short moment, Optimus opened his eyes and smiled at Ratchet, though it was strained, likely due to the pain he was experiencing. “You... have  _ never...  _ failed me, old friend,” he croaked. “If I… am… to die, to join… the AllSpark… I will do… so knowing that you have… exhausted... every treatment and option.”

At that moment, Ratchet hated his friend. Hated him for torturing him with his kindness, for adding to his desire to do nothing more than fall to the ground and weep. That he had failed so pure a soul was worse punishment than any Decepticon could ever inflict. “Please don’t say that, Optimus,” he begged quietly. “Please don’t spend your last moments trying to ease my burden.”

“You… have always… carried the burden… of your… patients, Ratchet,” Optimus replied. “I… have known you… for longer than... I have known... the Matrix. I will not… leave this world… without… trying to… ease your conscious.”

The medic didn’t respond for a moment. He didn’t know what to say. Maybe that was what prompted the small, sad laugh that emitted itself from his voice box. “I’ve been dealing with that… that unbearable selflessness for over four million years, Optimus, and I still don’t know what to do with it.”

He quieted after that admission, face returning to its somber state. “And now I never will.”

“Ratchet-”

“It’s not  _ fair,  _ Optimus.”

The Prime smiled again, smaller this time. “Warfare rarely is, old friend.”

They fell into silence, both mechs immersed in their long history, their friendship, their shared journeys. They’d traversed the dangers of life together. Now, it was time for Ratchet to travel alone. 

It was Optimus that broke the quiet. His voice was weaker now, like his strength was being sapped away. Just hearing it nearly brought the medic to tears--it was so cruelly ironic for the ‘bot who’d always had the most powerful, attention grabbing voice in the room to be reduced to murmuring the final words of his life. But their volume didn’t affect their importance.

“Ratchet,” Optimus said, “my… spark is… nearly faded. I… I can… feel it. We… must… dis...discuss… the Matrix. It… cannot… die… with me.”

The medic hadn’t even considered the Matrix of Leadership during all… this. He’d been so preoccupied with saving the life of his friend that it hadn’t even crossed his mind. And now that it had, he really couldn’t be bothered. He cared more for Optimus than any relic of the Primes. But because it was Optimus speaking, he listened.

“Who would you have take your place?” he asked quietly. 

“Bum...Bumblebee,” came the softly spoken answer. There was no hesitation in his voice. “I… have every… faith… in him. He… will make… a fine… leader.”

Images flashed through Ratchet’s mind: the static of Bumblebee’s visual feed, the ensuing ground bridge, Arcee flying through the air, Bulkhead charging through the portal with their fallen scout slung over his shoulder, Rafael’s sobs. It was then that he realized Optimus didn’t know about any of that; he had likely been unconscious when it happened. He didn’t know about Bumblebee’s death, and he immediately decided that he wouldn’t tell him. The Prime deserved to spend his last moments happily.

“Bumblebee… will be honored,” he replied. “But if he refuses the Matrix, who would you have take his place?”

Optimus frowned, but he answered nonetheless. “There is… no… other. If Bumblebee… refuses… Arcee could lead. You could lead. But… I strongly… suggest… that Bumblebee… take the Matrix.”

Ratchet recalled Arcee’s dull thousand-yard stare and her empty eyes. One look over his shoulder revealed that she was still sitting where she’d fallen earlier, holding Jack against her shoulder. She was clearly still only barely keeping it together, and while he could never even begin to express how much he admired the small two-wheeler, seeing her so broken didn’t inspire the greatest of confidence. “I am no leader, and I’m afraid that Arcee is currently indisposed,” he admitted. 

“Bumblebee… will take… the Matrix…” Optimus said, but his voice grew weaker and weaker with each syllable, and by the end of the sentence his optics were dark and empty. 

Ratchet started, panic and pure anxiety rising in his chest. "Optimus?" he asked desperately, voice wavering. 

There was no answer.

\---

Everyone reacted to news of Optimus’s death differently. The news had been expected, but it seemed that the others had still been hopeful. They must have thought that Ratchet, the greatest medic who ever lived, could cure their leader. That Ratchet, the high and mighty, would have saved their friend. Instead, the Prime’s passing took its place amongst the myriad of his other failures. Bitterly, he added the disappointment and crushing sadness that universally flashed across his teammate’s faces to that list as well.

He stood in front of them all while they were still assembled and announced the end of the last Prime. His voice was shaky, beaten, subdued, but he managed. Barely. He told them of his last words, of how Bumblebee had been expected to take the Matrix. His voice cracked as he did so, only now fully processing the death of the yellow mech, his long-time friend. Now that the issue of Optimus was settled, he had the time to grieve. And grieve he did. They all did. 

Arcee disappeared as soon as he was done speaking. She sat up so abruptly that it jarred Jack from his place on her shoulder, but she only seemed to half-notice. The femme took her partner in her hands and gently set him down before transforming and vanishing into the depths of the base. The faint echo of her engines was the only indication that she’d ever been with them at all. 

Bulkhead reacted differently. He was perhaps the only one not taken off guard, the one who had best prepared himself for the worst. He’d clearly taken the time to steel his nerves, because when the news broke, he didn’t react aside from the closing of his optics and the lowering of his head. The children were gathered around him, perhaps taking him as a source of strength: Miko was hugging Rafael, and both were sitting on his shoulder. Jack at first stood nearby, still staring down the hallway Arcee had retreated to. After a moment of that, Bulkhead picked him up and sat him with the others, and just like that, the boy’s attention shifted. 

Ratchet wished he could run like Arcee. He wished he was as strong as Bulkhead. He wished a thousand times, a million times, to be anything more than what he was. Because as he stood there, watching Team Prime fall apart around him, he had never felt weaker. He’d never felt more alone. He’d never felt more like a failure. 

So he waited. He sat at Optimus’s berthside and waited. The hours and days ticked by, and night after night fell. Arcee disappeared entirely, leaving behind nothing of her presence except a note addressed to the entire team. It was short and to the point, very much in Arcee’s style, and it only seemed to further drive a wedge into the heart of the Autobots. 

Bulkhead had time and time again volunteered to take the children home. After the note, he grew more distant. Eventually, the green wrecker did not return. He had likely remained with the humans. Ratchet bitterly thought that it was very  _ typical  _ of him. Jack, Miko, and Rafael hadn’t known Optimus or Bumblebee for a fraction of the time that he had, that all the Autobots had. The Autobots had been family. Why should they tend to the needs of humans when it was they that took the biggest loss, faced the most challenging struggle? It was  _ their  _ family that had fallen apart, after all. 

But his inner musings did not change the reality of things. Arcee and Bulkhead were gone, licking their own wounds. Ratchet was practically alone in the base, with no company save for the body of his best friend. As the hours went by, he’d tended to it. He’d buffed it, he’d polished it, and he’d cleaned it. To the untrained observer, Optimus would be merely asleep. He was certainly not the picture of death. 

Once that was finished, and the body was the picture of elegance, the medic stood back and pulled up a seat. He took one last look at the face of his oldest friend, his leader, his brother. And he smiled a sad smile. “As I was with you in life, I will not desert you in death,” he said. He turned, made himself comfortable as he could, and faced forwards. He rested one servo on Optimus’s berth. 

And then, he looked within himself, to the deepest parts of his processor, and accessed his drives. Everything was stored there: his memories, his emotions, his downloads, and most importantly, his consciousness. With a mental flick of a switch, he crashed them all. His mind went dark. All color faded from his optics. With a smile on his face, Ratchet faded into oblivion. 

When Bulkhead entered the base the next day, the only thing there to greet him was the silence. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify, Ratchet isn't dead! He did that thing Soundwave did in season three, which is basically enter a voluntary and forced stasis lock by emptying your brain. If he'll recover or even wake up isn't for me to say.
> 
> It's Bulkhead's turn next chapter! I'll be honest, I'm not sure how well I'll write the big guy. Unlike the others, I've never really done much with him before, and he's never been my favorite character. All I can promise is that I'll do my best. Also that he'll have a major role and tons of character development, so I should probably figure out how to, y'know, write his dialogue
> 
> Also, Arcee Prime probably won't happen. If it does, it's because I'll have given in to fantasy and wish fulfillment. I can say with like 90% certainty that it won't happen, but it's the 10% that should haunt your dreams


	3. All Shall Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bulkhead and the kids find Ratchet, do some detective work, and collectively decide that everything is awful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it: Bulkhead's chapter. It's not quite as polished as the first two, but in my defense, I DID warn you guys last time that Bulkhead wasn't someone I could really dive into the head of. Still, I tried my best. You'll be seeing a lot of these characters in the future while Arcee and Ratchet suffer off-screen, but don't worry: this is still a Ratchet story with a lot of Arcee thrown in. But Bulky and the kids are still important characters, and they aren't going anywhere. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Please drop a review if it's not too much trouble--I really love reading comments!

The past week had been pretty slagging awful. It’d been the  _ pit.  _ Everything was falling apart, and not in a good way. Bulkhead was usually the last ‘bot to complain about things breaking–he usually enjoyed it, actually, especially when it got under Ratchet’s plating–but this wasn’t a physical break. It wasn’t something that he could fix with his knowledge of construction or beat down with his wrecking balls. It was… emotional. Mental. Immaterial. Somehow, that made it more real.

The worst part is that he’d have usually been able to see something like this coming. Despite his appearance, Bulkhead was a very empathetic ‘bot. He cared deeply about his friends and allies. He’d be the first in line to ask someone about their day, about how they were feeling. But this time, things were different. This wasn’t Cliffjumper. No matter how close he was with the rest of Team Prime, everyone knew he had a special relationship with Arcee. This was Bumblebee. It was Optimus. This hit everyone equally, including him. Or so he thought. 

Because while he was wrapped up in his own head, grieving in his own way, he didn’t notice Arcee’s increasingly rare appearances. He didn’t notice the way Ratchet completely shut down, closed off from the outside world. Instead, he’d spent more and more time with the children, directing all his empathy and support towards them. In a sick way, it was kind of self-serving; the kids didn’t have the baggage that the other Autobots did, and talking to them was easier. Helping them made him feel better. Besides, he told himself, the others needed their space. They needed time. They probably didn’t want to see him. 

And so, four days after Optimus and Bumblebee died, Bulkhead left the base and didn’t come back. He spent the nights on Miko’s curb and the days driving all three of them wherever they wanted to go. It was helping–or, at least, he thought it was. Miko’d been smiling more. Jack didn’t seem as down. Even Raf seemed a little better, though it was hard to tell with the littlest of them all. Raf hid his emotions better than some ‘bots he knew. 

But eventually, the random driving adventures got old. All of them wanted to see the others again, Jack in particular. He and Arcee hadn’t been on the best of terms for the past few days. She’d been shutting him out, ignoring him, and when he eventually snapped at her, she’d said something. Bulkhead didn’t know the particulars. No one did. Jack wouldn’t say. All he knew was that it’d hurt the boy, and that he’d left the base and hadn’t gone back. But now, three days later, he seemed ready to forgive and forget. It was admirable, really. If there was one thing he admired about humans, it was their persistence. 

So he’d waited in his usual spot on Miko’s curb. She met him there as soon as the sun came up, like she usually did. They rode around, blasted the radio, and did their best to enjoy themselves. It worked, a little. Miko hadn't been very close to the two fallen Autobots, and Bulkhead kept himself distracted with her joy. It lasted a few hours, a few, wonderful hours, before Jack called. By the time they reached his house, Raf was ready, too. Neither of them wanted to listen to heavy rock music. They settled on pop, Raf’s favorite, and started on the road to the base. But despite the music, the ride was quiet. Miko tried to make idle conversation, but neither of the others seemed interested. As they neared the base, the only sounds were of Bulkhead’s engine and the quietly humming radio.

But the quiet of the car ride couldn’t have prepared him for the utter stillness of Autobot Outpost Omega One. It was like they’d entered a tomb. What used to be a place filled with the chirping of machines and the heavy footsteps of Cybertronians had become quiet as a scrapyard, empty as the sea of rust. It was dark. It was eerie. Bulkhead didn’t like it one bit, and as he transformed to let the children out, his bad feeling got worse. 

Miko, as usual, was the first to comment. "Since when is this place… quiet?" she asked, tactless. She couldn't see in the dark; none of them could. 

"Since 'Bee died," Raf said quietly. The others looked at him, surprised that he was talking at all, but he'd already turned his head away. "He was always the loudest." 

That pretty much killed the conversation. The kids fell quiet as Bulkhead switched on his headlights and started to look around. He'd have to ignore them for now, as much as he hated to do it–ignoring them was the one thing he swore not to do after Arcee and Ratchet started to. 

The first order of business was to find Ratchet so he could get the power back on. No, wait, they would need to ask him  _ why  _ the power wasn't on in the first place. Or, scratch that, they could probably skip all that and just turn the power back on themselves. 

The kids couldn't see it, but Bulkhead sighed. This was why he wasn't anyone's leader. Even Jack made more cohesive decisions than he did, and he was just some sixteen year old fleshy. 

Unfortunately, his decision was made for him. His headlights, which had been looking over the entire base, flooded over the med-bay. And it was there that he discovered why there was no power, why everything was so silent, why Ratchet hadn’t been answering his calls. The body of Optimus Prime laid quietly where they’d left it, and at his side was his ever-loyal medic. Ratchet was still as a statue, leaned back in what looked like a very uncomfortable position. His optics were offline, and one of his hands was laid against Optimus’s berth. 

Bulkhead reacted the quickest. “Ratchet!” He ran forwards, and the kids raced to catch up. 

“What happened to him?” Miko cried.

“I don’t know,” the wrecker replied grimly. “Hold on.” He turned his headlights directly on to Ratchet himself, specifically his right arm, and began to pry at it. A panel came up, revealing the medic’s scanner. He activated it without a word and flashed it over his friend’s still form. As it worked, he felt a momentary surge of panic and guilt wash over him; he’d lost two close friends in the past week, and he wasn’t sure if he could handle losing a third. That train of thought quickly sent him into a downwards spiral as he realized that it could very well be four. At least they knew where Ratchet  _ was.  _ No one had seen or heard from Arcee in days. 

His journey into the depths of his own mind was interrupted by the piercing sound of the scanner’s beep, which nearly made his spark melt in relief. “He’s alive!” he shouted, maybe a little too loudly. Miko winced at his side and glared at him, though she was smiling too. Bulkhead grinned sheepishly. “Uh, sorry.”

“If he’s alive, why isn’t he moving?” Raf asked.

“Is he sleeping?” Miko wondered. 

Over the years, he’d learned that “sleeping” was the human equivalent of recharging. And he could confidently say that no, Ratchet was  _ not  _ recharging. He supposed that it was less obvious to a human, but there were differences between recharging and other stillnesses. Namely the fact that those in recharge weren’t usually mistaken for the dead. But if he wasn’t recharging, and he wasn’t offline, then that could only mean…

Bulkhead’s positive energy deflated like a leaky balloon. “No,” he said grimly, “he’s in stasis lock.”

“Stasis lock?” Raf again. 

"Yeah, stasis lock. It's like… uh… recharge! Er, sleep. Sleep. It's like sleep that you can't wake up from. Not by yourself, anyway," Bulkhead said, feeling the oddest mix of embarrassment, pride, and deep concern. Embarrassment because that was so difficult to say, pride because he managed to say it at all, and concern because stasis lock could mean one of two things: one, that a Decepticon was in the base, or two, that Ratchet did this to himself. It was the second option that made him feel the sickest. 

"Like a coma," Raf said quietly. He looked up at the towering wrecker, and Bulkhead noticed how worried the kid looked. "You… you can help him, can't you? He's not stuck like this, is he?" 

The question sunk the last Autobot's spark even further. How was he supposed to tell them that literally any other Autobot would have been better suited to wake up the doc? Ratchet had taken great care to show both Optimus and Arcee how to operate his equipment in the case of his unexpected deactivation. Bumblebee already knew some of what he taught them, as Ratchet forced him to learn after he lost his voice box. Bulkhead, though? He was too big, too clumsy. He was the most inept 'bot on Earth when it came to medicine. And now, it would show. 

"I… I can't," he admitted sullenly. "I don't know how. If he did this to himself, he probably knew that. He knew I wouldn't be able to activate him."

Miko looked up at him, surprised, and glared at him skeptically–it wasn't an angry look, and it was more childish than anything. It was actually kind of cute, though he'd never tell her that. "Wait, hold the phone. You think Ratchet turned off his own lights?" 

"I dunno. Maybe," Bulkhead replied. "It was either that or 'Cons, and I don't see any of Staracream's guys around here." He put a large, green servo on Ratchet's shoulder. He hadn't felt this useless, this  _ helpless,  _ since, well, ever. He was a wrecker, good at breaking and not much else. Medicine just wasn't his forte. "Arcee could probably break him out. She's better with this stuff than I am." 

"I think that might be a problem," a dull voice said. 

Bulkhead, Miko, and Raf all looked down at the berth. Jack had been quiet for a long time, and for good reason: he was standing over a Cybertronian datapad, one that Ratchet must have been reading before he shut down. The boy looked… numb. He must have read it. The fact that he'd missed it made Bulkhead feel even more embarrassed; he should have seen the 'pad before any of the kids. Primus, why was he so dumb? He was even getting shown up by the fleshies now. 

Miko talked before both of her companions, which really wasn't surprising. "What? Wait, is that a data-thingy? What's it say? Did Arcee write it? Did she say where she is?" 

"Data _ pad _ , Miko," Raf corrected. "Jack, what's it say?" 

Jack shook his head. Even in the dark, Bulkhead could tell what his face looked like. He knew the look. Wheeljack wore it every time someone left the Wreckers–when Bulkhead left the Wreckers. "She's gone," Jack said instead of reading the 'pad aloud. "And it doesn't sound like she's coming back."

If Megatron himself had just punched Bulkhead in the torso, he wouldn't have felt any different. Arcee–he had to be talking about Arcee–was gone? The only Autobot besides himself who wasn't offline or on their way there, and she abandoned them? How could she? Why would she? How… why…

A surge of grief and sadness crashed over his processor like a mighty wave on an eroded beach. He didn't realize just how badly he needed to see his Autobot friends, the only people around who he could actually relate to, until they were gone. From what he knew about Arcee, her deciding to go solo was pretty much par for the course. She'd done it for centuries after Tailgate died, after all. But she hadn't after losing Cliffjumper, and Bulkhead hadn't even considered that she would now. He'd been taking her for granted. She probably knew more about loss than any of them, and now she was gone. On her own. 

He hoped she was okay. 

"Bulkhead?" 

The wrecker shook his head and looked around. "Huh?" He'd tuned out, lost in his own thoughts. He'd been doing that a lot lately. 

Raf was staring up at him, frowning. "I asked if you knew where she might have gone."

The question rattled him. Bulkhead realized that he had absolutely no idea where his friend would have gone, or even what she was doing. It only made him feel more guilty, considering that he hadn't expected her to leave at all. He hadn't realized that Arcee was at that point. He should have been a better friend, should have been there for her. Maybe then, she'd have stayed. 

"No," Bulkhead replied sullenly, "I've got nothing. She could be anywhere." 

_ Anywhere, huh? Hm… _

Anywhere on Earth, that is. And that meant… 

Bulkhead's eyes widened as a spark of hope took over his processor. It was so simple! 

"Wait, wait! I've got it!" he shouted gleefully. The kids stared at him questioningly, with Jack specifically looking desperate. The wrecker was quick to soothe his nerves. "Ratchet installed a system in the base computer's mainframe to lock on to each of our signals. If we can get the power back on, we could track Arcee and bring her back."

"And then she could wake up the doc!" Miko cheered. "Bulkhead, you're a genius!"

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Jack demanded. "Let's do it! Arcee could be hurt. The 'cons are still active, aren't they?" 

"Yeah," Bulkhead confirmed, "I don't see why they wouldn't be. Ian fact, with Megatron extinguished, I think they'll be way more than active."

He looked grimly down at the children. "They'll be hunting."

\-----

Alright, so  _ maybe  _ that was a little dramatic. In his defense, Bulkhead hadn’t ever led anyone before, so he didn’t really have a handle on those inspiring speeches Optimus was--had been--so good at. Besides, drama and fear of death was as good a motivator as any, and it wasn’t like the big guy was lying. He was just telling the truth, though maybe he could have watered it down for his younger audience. 

It worked, though. It really did. Raf sat himself down in front of the main computer as Bulkhead started loading Energon into the base’s fuel pipes. Miko and Jack operated a control panel in the back of the base, and when the wrecker called out that he was ready, they switched the power on.

  
The result was instantaneous, and light flooded back into the halls. The computers activated with a staticky whir, and Raf immediately set to work at tracking Arcee. While he did that, the others started to make their way back to the main room. Jack and Miko ran ahead. Bulkhead followed them at first, but stopped when he passed the base’s sleeping quarters. While the footsteps of the children receded into the distance, the wrecker stared reminiscently at the various Autobot-size doors that lined the hall.

Optimus’s room was a dead giveaway due to the size of his door. Bulkhead remembered fondly that the Prime didn’t like his quarters. He was always on the move, either out scouting or meandering around the base. Well, meandering wasn’t the right word. Despite appearances, Optimus always seemed to have a direction in mind. He was never aimless, even if it was three in the morning and he was just waiting in the storage room while Bulkhead tried to indulge in a late-night snack. He wasn’t sure if that memory was still embarrassing or if it was fond, but he  _ did  _ know that the scathing look Arcee gave him after his screams woke her up was something that would haunt his dreams forever. 

The big ‘bot peeked inside the door. No one ever went into Optimus’s quarters, but that’s only because there was no reason to. The only time one of them went into someone else’s room was to find said room’s owner, and it was pretty much an unspoken rule that Optimus was never in his. So when he saw it for the first time, it blew him away. The room looked like someone had actually lived in it. There wasn’t much in the way of furniture--just a cluttered desk and a practically unused berth--but it was the rest of the place that counted. The walls were covered, completely covered, in framed pictures. As Bulkhead gaped in awe and looked around, he even spotted a few familiar faces: Springer, Hound, Windblade, Warpath, all sorts of ‘bots. 

Bulkhead kept going, moving throughout the tiny space. He felt like he was walking on hallowed ground, like he wasn’t supposed to be there, but it didn’t dissuade him. It did the opposite, actually: he felt… touched. Emotional. Seeing all these pictures of ‘bots Optimus cared about was really moving. The Prime had always been warm, but kind of distant. Ratchet explained it away as the influence of the Matrix of Leadership, but that didn’t make it any less… well, Bulkhead was never good with words. Upsetting wasn’t right, but it was hard to deal with at times. Optimus wasn’t ever someone he could just sit down and talk to. He knew the Prime cared, but it wasn’t always obvious. 

Now, he had all the proof in the world right in front of his optics, and he didn’t believe it. Maybe the Matrix wasn’t such a duller after all. 

The wrecker found his tour was over all too soon, and he came to a stop in front of the desk. It was that desk that nearly made him cry. What he’d thought were scattered datapads and reports were actually a load of pictures, each of a ‘bot He knew Optimus was really close to. He saw even more familiar faces in that pile: Hot Rod, or Rodimus, as he liked to be called, Jazz, Ultra Magnus, Prowl, Ironhide, Arcee, Bumblebee, Ratchet, and… and Bulkhead himself. It was so… touching. Touching, yeah. That was definitely the right word. He had no idea that Optimus considered him that close of a friend. It hurt. It really did hurt. 

He’d always admired the Prime, knew for a fact that he was the greatest leader in Cybertronian history, but the idea that he belonged in such a prestigious group that included the likes of Ultra Magnus and Jazz was too much. He couldn’t have deserved it. He wasn’t worthy. Bulkhead had always seen their relationship as a kind of one-way thing. He thought he was closer to Optimus than Optimus was to him. They didn’t have the same kind of relationship that the former leader had with Ratchet, Bumblebee, and Arcee. 

But now he knew. This room and all its contents were proof that Optimus hadn’t been as distant as everyone thought he was. It was proof that he’d still been a normal Cybertronian under all that Primeliness. It was proof that he’d been more than the passive and noble-sparked demi-god almost everyone had seen him as. 

Bulkhead didn’t know Optimus saw him as a close friend. Now that he did, his death hurt all the more. Not because he didn’t care before--far from it, actually. It was just that now he realized how lacking his relationship with his commander had been, and how much better it could have become. He and Optimus could have really bonded. But he was gone, and that chance would never come. It was just the latest in a long line of things the Decepticons stole from him.

Quietly, the wrecker turned to leave Optimus’s quarters. On his way out, he spotted something he missed earlier: beside the door, on the interior wall, hung another photo. But he recognized this one. He was there when it was taken. It was of Team Prime, all of them, shortly after they united on Earth. Bulkhead reached out to it almost reverently. So much had changed since that photo was snapped. There was so much contained within it that he would never see again. Bumblebee, striking a dramatic pose for the camera; Cliffjumper, laughing boisterously; Arcee, smiling with a sparkle in her eyes; Ratchet, rolling his eyes at the antics of his younger teammates; himself, flashing a big, dumb grin; Optimus, smiling wide and genuine. 

Bulkhead plucked the picture from the wall and stared at it, running his hand along its frame softly, like if he made one wrong move it would shatter and fade into nothingness. This was his team. His family. They would never all be together again.

He took the picture and left Optimus’s quarters without a word, feeling the weight of all his fallen friends pressing down upon him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may think Bulky isn't as bad off as the other two, and you'd be right. But he's not unaffected, even if it may seem that way. Just bear with me.
> 
> Next chapter, we finally get to see what the Decepticons have been up to. Expect a lighter tone than the first three due to plenty of Deceptisnark, Knockout being Knockout, and Starscream having the best week of his life.


	4. Something Wicked This Way Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 'cons are back! Starscream revels in the novelty of Megatron's death, Knockout tries his best to keep his job, and Breakdown lands a desk job for the biggest egomaniac in the galaxy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you'll probably have questions about the 'cons in this chapter, but don't worry--I've thought of them all and will answer them all... later. For now, please enjoy the chapter, and I'd really, REALLY appreciate anyone who drops a review. Reviews are very nice things to wake up to.

There was a certain dignity expected of the leader of the Decepticons. A particular… wisdom, if you will, one that only came with age and the experience granted by countless vorns of warfare. Megatron had founded and solidified those expectations over the stellar cycles. He set a precedent for how a leader should act, though anyone who knew him could tell that it was a precedent for one and of one. Megatron had no intentions of offlining, and he certainly had no intentions of being replaced. He was supposed to be the perfect leader, sitting on his perfect throne, casting judgement and fury down upon all those who failed him for all eternity. 

Well,  _ frag  _ that. As far as Starscream was concerned, Megatron could go be the perfect leader of the Pit. The Decepticons were his now, and his alone. Frag him, frag his reign, and  _ frag  _ his precedents. The dead didn’t get to structure the lives of the living, and Megatron was  _ more  _ than dead. He was  _ defeated,  _ which was even worse. It was the living and the victorious who determined the future. And as both of those things, Starscream was clearly the most qualified for the job.

Of course, he’d been the most qualified for the job long before his dearly departed leader kicked the rust-bucket, but that didn’t matter now. The past was no longer important.  _ Megatron  _ was no longer important. Starscream intended to start the first day of his reign right, and that meant setting an example. 

And he’d do that. He’d march out onto the bridge of the  _ Nemesis  _ and go crazy. He’d deliver some sob story about the Autobots assassinating Megatron and Soundwave and reassure the troops that he’d be the best leader he possibly could be. Blah, blah, blah. May Megatron live on in our sparks, and all that scrap. It would certainly be the greatest challenge of his reign, but he’d get through it. The crew would know that their first solar cycles in the post-Megatron era would be seamless and productive. They’d all be able to recharge easy at night. 

But first… Starscream had some precedents to break. He’d been cooped up in the med-bay for two solar cycles, ever since the little two-wheeler and the green Autobot beat the circuitry out of him. It’d been mind-numbingly boring, but it would pay off now: Knockout finally gave him a bill of good health, and he was going to make sure his first healthy act as leader would be memorable. 

For him, anyway. 

The former air commander pushed himself off the medical berth he’d been stuck on and looked to the left. Across from him was the body of Megatron, untouched since the fight per his instructions. An ecstatic smile crossed his faceplate. Oh, he was going to enjoy this. With Soundwave gone, no one would see, and no one would be able to silently judge him.

Starscream approached his former leader, drawing back his long, sharp claws. He brought his arm into the air, higher, higher… and then he stopped.

And laughed. 

“Ha!” he crowed, breaking into a fit of uncontrollable hysterics. “I did it! HA! I did it, I did it, I did it! Tell me,  _ my liege,  _ how’s the Pit? I hope you enjoy your stay, because you aren’t leaving! No resurrections, no dark Energon, no Soundwave! You’re dead! Snuffed! Extinguished by my hand!” The seeker was positively bursting with glee, and he broke into a little dance at Megatron’s berthside. The blank, unseeing eyes of his former leader did nothing to deter him. Starscream had worked at offlining that failure of a mech for eons, and he had every right to bask in his inevitable and rightful victory. 

“Oh, the  _ mighty  _ Megatron can’t fall in battle! He’s too powerful, too skilled, too omnipotent! Poor, poor master. Look how far you’ve fallen! Looks like you believed in your own legend a little too much. And the best part? It was I who defeated you! Not Prime, not Overlord, not Scorponok. Me! The rightful leader of the Decepticons has surpassed his predecessor! This is what you deserve, Megatron! Enjoy the Pit!”

Starscream rounded out his dance by leaning forwards and rapping his knuckles against Megatron’s blank faceplate. He chuckled gleefully, his entire being practically radiating with happiness. This was his wildest dream, and now he’d gotten to experience the sensation of it coming true twice in the same orbital cycle! Primus was certainly looking out for him. First with the space bridge explosion, and now with a very different kind of explosion. It was surreal.

“Ahem.”

Almost as surreal as being interrupted in the middle of his victory celebration.

Starscream whipped around, prepared to ruin some poor Vehicon’s solar cycle with a whirlwind of insults. His retort died in his throat as he saw Knockout smirking and leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. The red mech’s smirk grew wider when they made eye contact. “Don’t let me interrupt you, Screamer. Keep going. You were saying something about the Pit?”

The seeker groaned. “Knockout, how long have you been standing there? This is the second time you’ve interrupted me gloating over Megatron’s corpse, and I don’t appreciate it.”

The medic shrugged and pushed himself off the doorway and into the room itself. “Then maybe stop celebrating in my med-bay, hm? Anyone could just waltz in here and eavesdrop. You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”

“Oh please,” Starscream scoffed. “I’m the master of subtlety. I practically invented the art. I spent vorns scheming against Megatron, after all.”

Knockout smirked again. “And yet you snuffed the big guy with a missile. Not exactly subtle. If the Vehicons were five nanocliks faster, we’d  _ both  _ be in the stockade.”

“Well, I can’t  _ always  _ be perfect.”

“That implies you were perfect to start with.”

Starscream glared at his second-in-command, who was wise enough to smile apologetically and hold up his servos. “Kidding, kidding. Apologies, my liege.”

The seeker grinned dangerously. “Better.”

"Now, doctor," he continued, stepping towards him, "what can I do for you? You must be here to see me."

Knockout's smirk dropped into a viscerally unimpressed look. "You're in  _ my  _ med-bay, Starscre–ugh,  _ Lord  _ Starscream. If anything,  _ I  _ should ask you why  _ you're  _ here." He sighed. "But in this case, you're right. I've been performing some, shall we say, research, and I have a question for you."

Starscream quirked an optic ridge. "Oh?" 

"Yes," Knockout confirmed. "It's pretty simple: what were the 'bots doing in Megatron's head? I figured you were too busy gloating, so I took some initiative and looked into it."

_ Hm.  _ Well, the obnoxious medic was right about one thing: Starscream was definitely too busy celebrating to wonder about the Autobots. Now that the question was raised, he realized that it seemed important. It was something they should at least think about, anyway–so long as it didn't impede his gloating session  _ too  _ much. 

"Alright," the seeker said curiously. "You've got my attention. Now, what are you going to do with it?"

Knockout's eyes gleamed. He leaned in close. "I'm going to blow your processor," he grinned. Starscream decided that he didn't like having the mech's face that close. That crazed, excited look was probably the last thing a lot of prisoners saw. 

_ "I'm better at breaking them." _

The seeker pushed the medic away. "Personal space, dear doctor. And get on with it already."

"Fine, fine," Knockout placated with a casual wave of his servo. "Buzzkill. Anywho, I did some digging. I asked myself why the 'bots would risk a patch with Megatron when they could have just accessed our mainframe. And get this: they  _ did.  _ Someone accessed our central database about twenty kliks before we crashed their patch party. And you know what they accessed?" 

"Please don't make me gue-"

"Guess."

Starscream sighed. His co-conspirator  _ really  _ knew how to twist his circuits. "I don't know. The strategy banks?" 

"Wrong!" Knockout drawled. "They skipped all the usual stuff and went for something a little more… juicy."

"Knockout, if you don't spit it out this  _ instant,  _ I will  _ ruin  _ that finish you're so proud of."

"Fine, fine.” The medic grinned at him; he knew he was getting under Starscream’s plating, and he was enjoying it. “The Autobots accessed our bio-weapons program. Specifically the medical files. They were looking at our more lethal projects, the ones Megatron had a hand in. As it turns out, they've got a renewed interest in the cybonic plague. Ever heard of it?"

_ Cybonic plague… _ Starscream remembered that one. Even he thought it was a little… much. An absolutely brutal disease, the plague had no cure. It made him queasy. Not necessarily because of the plague's awfulness, but more so because he hated biological warfare. It was too sloppy, too careless. Though, now that he thought about it, sloppy and careless were Megatron's MO. 

"Of course I remember it," he scoffed. "I was there when it was developed." He paused, confused. "Erm, why do you ask?" 

"Because they were looking for a cure. The 'bots must have thought we had one. When they were disappointed, they went digging into the big M's processor."

Starscream was starting to catch on now. "If they were looking for a cure, then one of their number must be infected." 

Knockout looked  _ excited.  _ "Exactly! Well,  _ was  _ infected. The virus has a surprisingly fast kill time. Victims get a few cycles, tops. Whoever the 'bots were trying to save is long gone." 

That meant… that was  _ wonderful!  _ Two Autobots down? With Megatron gone, his number of enemies were dropping fast. Maybe he'd be the first peace-time Decepticon leader after he finished off the two-wheeler and her remaining allies. 

Starscream smiled sharply, sinisterly, and chuckled. "If you're right, doctor, then there are only three Autobots left on this planet."

Knockout nodded sagely. "The question is: which ones?" 

"Well, we know the two-wheeler and the big one survived," the seeker answered thoughtfully. "I snuffed the scout, so that leaves the medic and… Prime. Knockout, did I snuff Megatron  _ and  _ Optimus in one fell swoop?”

"Unlikely," Knockout disagreed. "'Con luck never holds, especially for something as grand as  _ that _ . The virus probably dropped their docbot."

But Starscream had planted the seeds of hope in both their minds, and there was no going back. The idea of both Megatron and Optimus vanishing overnight was almost too good to be true.

"Think about it, Knockout,” he said. “Who on the Autobot team would have the knowledge and foresight to guide the performance of a cortical psychic patch? I’ll give you a hint: certainly not Prime. The medic must have been functional enough to guide the patch, and therefore Prime must have been the patient!"

But they couldn't confirm that. Not yet. He couldn't prematurely claim victory this time. He had to be… cautious. Careful. If he wanted to secure his reign, he had to leave carelessness behind. He couldn’t celebrate yet.  _ Yet. _

“Erm, Knockout,” he started, “about the plague. How exactly could an Autobot have caught it?" 

The doctor perked up. "Right! I was going to mention that earlier, but I… forgot. Anyway, doesn't matter, past is past, yada yada, look at this." He held up a datapad, the screen of which was flashing with bright blue cybertronian script. 

"An Autobot distress beacon," Starscream realized. 

"From a downed ship, yes," Knockout confirmed. "But in this case, it's more than that. It's the basis of my 'plague theory'. All I know about this ship so far is that it's called the  _ Axalon _ . It was an Autobot scout involved in the raid on the  _ Harbinger.  _ She went down a few centuries ago. But none of that matters. What's important in all this is that the  _ Axalon  _ may have been a plague ship. And if she was, well, I think we've got a second dead Autobot on our hands."

A plague ship would indeed explain everything. It wasn't an implausible theory. They were everywhere, strewn throughout the cosmos–space litter, like plastic in the ocean. Downed Cybertronian ships were almost never examined without a medic, and even then were sometimes left alone. To some, it wasn't worth the risk. Whatever treasures inside could be infected with a nasty Decepticon plague, and if you were lucky, it'd be one of the incurable ones.

Starscream was probably the first Cybertronian in history who actually  _ wanted  _ to find one of those flying tombs. 

"I want confirmation," he said. "Proof that the cybonic plague is really here.”

He turned around and clasped his hands behind his back, hoping to incite some of that old dramatic flare Megatron always seemed to have. He couldn’t see Knockout’s reaction, so he wasn’t sure if it worked or just made him look stupid. “Take Breakdown to the Autobot vessel. Bring back a sample. And if it’s the plague, well…” Starscream grinned sinisterly. “Perhaps Megatron and Prime will continue their eternal conflict in the Pit.”

He couldn’t see Knockout’s face, but he imagined that for once it wasn’t amused. By the sound of his voice, he was… hesitant, which was unusual for him. “Your wish is my command.” 

Even the cocky doctor wasn’t so eager to dive into a potential hot zone. But who could blame him? Starscream maintained his smirk as Knockout’s pedesteps receded into the distance and the med-bay doors closed. 

He was the only one aboard who could identify a strand of the cybonic plague. But if he didn’t come back, it would be a worthwhile trade. The Decepticons would lose a talented medic, yes, but the Autobots would have lost a leader. 

  
Knockout could be replaced. But Optimus Prime? What would the Autobots do without him?

\------

Knockout came back in less than a cycle. Starscream had been on the bridge, basking in the knowledge that it was irrevocably  _ his,  _ that Megatron couldn’t come back from the Pit and steal it back. The boredom of doing nothing but standing around hadn’t sunk in yet, so he was enjoying himself. Naturally, that was when the medic barged in. He seemed to have a knack for interrupting Starscream’s revelry.

//“Lord Starscream, I’ve got good news.”//

His annoyance didn’t last for very long. “Good news” could only mean one thing. //“I’m listening, doctor.”//

//“You’ll be delighted to know that the  _ Axalon  _ is, in fact, a plague ship. I performed an on-site analysis of a vat of infected Energon Breakdown so graciously collected for me, and I can say without a doubt that we’re dealing with the good old cybonic plague.”//

Starscream smiled sharply. //“Excellent work, doctor. Return to the ship at once. I have another assignment for you.”//

//“Finally. This desert’s hotter than slag, you know, and heat really corrodes my finish.”//

The seeker growled. Now was hardly the time to be so concerned over cosmetics. Didn’t Knockout understand that they stood on the very precipice of glory? //“I don’t care! Just get back here!”//

He disconnected the call before the medic could say something else about his paint. About a klik later, a ground bridge appeared behind him, depositing Knockout, Breakdown, and a small squad of Vehicons. Starscream dismissed all of them except for the two forged mechs. “Clear the bridge,” he instructed, and soon the three of them were alone.

The ensuing silence lasted about two astroseconds before Knockout cut it into pieces. “You seem tense, Screamer. Looks like you could use a buff. Breakdown offers an amazing polish job, you know. I’m sure he’d be more than happy to-”

“Silence!” Starscream shouted. The endless prattle ceased, but Knockout’s smirk did not. The seeker glared at him, but when he didn’t say anything else, he had no choice but to continue. “It has come to my attention that we have… a problem.”

Breakdown seemed confused, but he didn’t comment. He always liked Breakdown. He wasn’t anyone’s leader and never would be, but he was a perfectly obedient soldier. The obedience was obviously the more important out of the two.

“While we can now certainly close the story of Optimus Prime, there are still three highly dangerous Autobots on this planet-”

“Well, two and a half,” Knockout goaded. “Their medic doesn’t seem to be much good for anything.”

“-and our Vehicon warriors have proven themselves inept at handling them. I fear that we will not exterminate the survivors without reinforcements.  _ Proper  _ reinforcements.”

Breakdown finally spoke up, and Starscream briefly reconsidered his earlier analysis of the former Stunticon. Perhaps the seeker didn’t command the respect of his position. He’d have to work on that.

“I like the Vehicons,” Breakdown said plainly. 

_ What. _

Starscream rubbed his forehead. These two were giving him a splitting processor-ache. He needed those reinforcements soon, if for no other reason than to have better company. “I don’t care. Shut up and listen.”

Shut up and listen--heh. Story of his life. 

Both mechs fell silent. Starscream spent a few agonizingly long astroseconds staring them down, daring them to speak again. Knockout looked unapologetic, which was to be expected, and Breakdown seemed… blank. Empty. Oh well–so long as he was quiet, the seeker didn’t care. 

“Now,” he said, “as I was saying, the Vehicons are less than adequate when it comes to facing down Autobots. They’re poor shots, poor mechanics, poor soldiers, and worst of all,  _ stupid. _ I need new warriors; forged warriors. Proper Cybertronians. Proper  _ Decepticons. _ And you two are going to help me find them.”

Knockout’s usual unflappable bravado cracked. Starscream grinned; his SIC looked nervous. “Eh-heh, you’re not planning on replacing me, are you?”

“That depends. Are you going to keep interrupting me with your inane prattle?”

“No! No, I can–I can shut up.”

_ "Good." _

With Knockout finally fully silent, the seeker was able to spit out the rest of his plan. "With Soundwave gone, most of the  _ Nemesis  _ remains beyond us. I cannot operate a majority of the ship's systems. We need a new communications officer, someone who can maintain the warship. And we need new warriors. I don't want to take any chances with the remaining Autobots rabble."

It was… different. Caution. Starscream was usually bold and brash. This was new. Even when taking on Megatron, the seeker hadn't been anything less than abrasive. His plans were only  _ just  _ hidden enough to keep his leader from detecting his treachery. But that was all in the past. Starscream was leader now, and he had no intentions of a short reign. So the Autobots had to die swiftly, and he had to be careful. 

Breakdown stayed quiet, but Knockout spoke up again. How typical. "Apologies, my liege, but what exactly do you want us to do?" 

_ Maybe if you shut up for more than five kliks I could tell you.  _

Instead of saying that, Starscream tried his best to stay affable. There wasn't any point in provoking the medic–they needed to maintain a healthy work relationship, after all. 

"Send an encrypted message to all Decepticon forces within two light-years. Inform them that I require aid in a coming battle with Autobot forces." He hesitated, considering his next words. "Say nothing of Megatron," he said finally. "I don't want word getting out until my position is secure. The last thing I need right now is some glitch-head like Overlord coming to take the throne."

Megatron could beat Overlord, should the phase-sixer have challenged him. Starscream could not. 

Knockout nodded. "Understood, my liege. We'll get right on that! Come on, Breakdown."”   
  
He practically ran to the nearby communications console and dragged Breakdown along with him. The two were talking quietly, but Starscream didn’t care to listen in. He felt confident enough that they wouldn’t betray him. And if they did, well, they’d pay for it. He grinned; his enemies always underestimated him, whether they be Autobots or Decepticons. Megatron did it for vorns, and in the end it got him scrapped. Knockout and Breakdown were certainly a formidable team, but they had no idea what would happen to them if they rebelled. 

They would be loyal to him, willingly or not.

\-------

Two solar cycles passed before the  _ Nemesis  _ received a response from their contacts. Starscream wasn’t on the bridge when the signals came in, but Breakdown was, and after a short call they stood together in front of the communications monitor. On its large screen were three flashing, purple codes, each of which detailed a response from a Decepticon task force. 

Breakdown, as the acting communications chief of the warship, put all three signals through one of Soundwave’s old decoding cyphers. Starscream watched with little interest, only paying attention when his subordinate announced the cypher's completion. The purple codes blipped once more before melting away before their eyes, revealing the transmissions and the names of the Decepticons who sent them.

Breakdown looked at the first message they received. “Uh, do you want me to read them, or…?”

“Yes, yes, get on with it,” Starscream replied with a flippant wave of his hand. He was  _ lord  _ now. He didn’t have to read if he didn’t want to.

“Uh, alright.” Breakdown cleared his throat and started with the first message. “Says here that this one came from… Onslaught, leader of the Combaticons. Oh–oh wow.” The former Stunticon cut himself off, chuckling. 

“What’s so funny?” Starcream demanded. “Why are you laughing?” 

“Oh–oh, nothing, nothing, Comm- Lord Starscream. But, uh, Onslaught  _ really  _ doesn’t like you. At all.”

The seeker groaned, exasperated and angry. Of course one of the few Decepticons close enough to help him would be Pit-damned Onslaught and his Pit-damned Combaticons. Maybe his good luck was finally running out. “Yes, well, he’s probably still angry about that incident on Cybertron.”

“You mean that time with the Energon tanker?”

“Yes.”

“When you had him arrested?”

“That would be the one, yes.”

“...”

“...”

“He said he’d never serve under you again.”

“I  _ get the picture, Breakdown.  _ Shut up and move on to the next one.”

Starscream only half paid attention as his underling obliged, still silently fuming over Onslaught’s refusal. The two of them hadn’t ever gotten along, and the Combaticons likely wouldn’t have been anything more than a kink in the Decepticon machine, but that didn’t change the fact that they were powerful warriors. If they had only sworn loyalty to him, then they could have been turned on to the Earth. The three remaining Autobots would have been no match for them.

But  _ no.  _ Of  _ course  _ not. Onslaught was still picking at the past, angry about something that was  _ entirely his fault.  _ If he’d just followed orders, the Combaticons wouldn’t have been arrested in the first place. But he didn’t, they were, and now Starscream was paying for it. How typical.

The seeker tuned back in to Breakdown’s droning just in time to hear that the next message was from Dreadwing. The name sounded familiar–yes, he remembered Dreadwing. He’d fawned at Megatron’s feet back before the war and announced himself the leader’s bodyguard sometime afterwards. Dreadwing was a fanatic, an imbecile, someone who he could most certainly not allow aboard his ship. If he were to discover who had  _ really  _ slain Megatron, it would be disastrous. 

“...he said he’d come, but he’s currently hunting down a pair of wreckers out in deep space. Uh… Seaspray and some other guy.” 

_ Oh.  _ Well, perhaps he wouldn’t have to worry about Dreadwing. Even he wouldn’t survive two wreckers at once. “Most unfortunate for him. Oh well.” Losing another of Megatron’s lackeys would hardly be a blow to the Decepticon cause. 

If Breakdown noticed the flippant way his commander addressed the possible death of a subordinate, he didn’t say. Instead, he silently waited for the go-ahead to read the third and final message, and when he got it, he proceeded.

“This one’s pretty short, boss. Not much to it: ‘Affirmative. We will arrive within one deca cycle.’”

Starscream quirked an optical ridge. Blunt, straight, and to the point. How… boring. “Breakdown, who sent that message?”

“Hm… ah. Lieutenant Slipstream. Hold on–I think there’s an Autopedia profile on her-”

The seeker once again tuned his subordinate out as his processor screamed into overdrive. This time, it wasn’t anger that dominated him–it was… something else. It was some carnal mixture of dread, eagerness, satisfaction, fear, and anger. He couldn’t identify the sensation beyond those vague outlines. His thoughts were a blur, trapped behind a curtain of fog, sealed off within a prison of his own making. In that brief moment of panic, Starscream’s mind was akin to a ship lost at sea, aimlessly traversing the choppy waters of oblivion with only a fleeting sense of hope as a guide. 

During all that turmoil, only two words were able to escape his suddenly tangled vocalizer: “Oh, frag.”

  
The next few deca cycles were  _ not  _ going to be fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative title: Starscream is an unreliable narrator who's sick of KO's shit
> 
> Screamer hasn't ever had the chance to operate without Megatron, aside from that one episode with Skyquake. That's why he seems a little different this chapter--a little more cautious, a little more affable. He's already had his chance to rule ripped away once (because Megatron survived that space bridge explosion), so this time, he wants to make sure every possible loose end is tied up and handled. I hope that came across clearly in the chapter
> 
> Next chapter, we're back to the Autobots, and specifically Arcee. I don't know how long hers will be, but it'll be her last appearance for awhile. I think. I don't know. Regardless, it'll be Arcee's turn again next time
> 
> Props to anyone who caught all the references sprinkled throughout this chapter


	5. Crisscross

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arcee goes hunting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter this time around, but I think it's still pretty good. I've always loved diving into Arcee's head. Should this chapter have been longer? Probably, but I didn't want to drag things out and I didn't have much else to say. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

To the untrained eye, there were few constants between Earth and Cybertron. It wasn’t a hard conclusion to reach, considering that the two worlds were practical opposites. Where Cybertron was hard and metallic, Earth was soft and organic. Where Cybertron was clean, Earth was dirty. Where Cybertron was dead, Earth was alive. One had been home to a race of warmongering robots, and the other was home to tiny, vulnerable, fleshy humans. 

Depending on who you asked, that last one could be counted as a similarity. There were surprisingly many of them, but again, the untrained eye couldn’t see. Or  _ wouldn’t  _ see. It was subjective, again depending on the person you asked. 

Some didn’t care to see Earth for what it was: a teeming metropolis filled with intelligent life. There were many who looked at humans the same way they looked at all non-Cybertronians. To them, organics were disgusting, small-minded, weak, primitive, and stupid. Lesser beings not worth the time of day to deal with. Those were the ‘bots with the untrained eyes, those who either couldn’t or wouldn’t look at aliens and see them as equals. 

In a way, the untrained and the prejudiced were blind. It was those with perception and understanding that could really see. 

Earth and Cybertron weren’t so different. Each world hosted life, both sentient and not. Each world had a multitude of cultures, ecosystems, and peoples, all of which clashed with ideology and force. Not to mention the similarities humans shared with Cybertronians. They looked similar, behaved similarly, and spoke similarly. Earth and Cybertron were as a reflection in a cracked mirror: the other side is still visible, but it’s distorted. Warped. Different, yet the same. 

Maybe it was the distance between the worlds that threw so many ‘bots off. They were light-years apart, on opposite sides of the same galaxy. So great was their distance that even Cybertronian warp engines could take months or years to move from one planet to the other. After all, Earth was so far away, so technologically inferior, so vulnerable and  _ weak. _ Maybe that was why so many Cybertronians discarded organic worlds like Earth; maybe it existed outside of their predetermined universe, and because it wasn’t Cybertron, it was categorized with vague, offensive terms and ignored.

But no matter what some ‘bots thought, Earth was very much a part of their universe. It was governed by the same reality-shaping laws as Cybertron. Physics and science still applied on organic worlds, even if they were in “primitive” forms. All of the principles discovered by ancient scientists before the Golden Age still ruled over the Earth. Not that Arcee would have known them, of course.

Before the war, before the revolution, two-wheelers were marked as part of the “servant class”, which meant they were little more than glorified slaves. It was a difficult life, one that wasn’t graced with much in the way of education. Some servant class ‘bots never escaped their lot in life. Those that did were usually called “lucky”. Arcee hadn’t ever appreciated that classification. No two-wheeler was forged with good luck. Those that possessed it even for an instant made their own, like she did.

Her past was long and troubled, but she beat the odds. She set herself up to have a better path forwards than the nightmare that lay behind her. Arcee met someone in a high place, and through him became educated beyond the wildest dreams of any servant. She became more confident in herself, more certain of her future, and, for a short time, she was happy. But then the Great War came, and all of that came crashing down.

The next centuries saw the slow degradation of all that knowledge she’d picked up. That which wasn’t useful in battle was therefore unessential to her livelihood, and so it faded away. Despite anything she could say to defend Earth, the femme could no longer recall all the laws of nature and the universe. She didn’t remember the principles of physics. 

None of them, anyway, save for one:

_ “An object at motion will stay in motion until acted upon by an equal or opposite force.” _

That one, the first law of motion, stuck with Arcee from the moment she heard it. It was like a guideline to Cybertronian existence. It even made its way into the training rhetoric at boot camp: “Hit hard enough, and the Decepticon falls down. Hit fast enough, and they won’t have time to recover. Be ruthless in your attacks, and they won’t pick themselves off the ground. Be determined, and nothing will sway you. Be confident, and there will be no equal or opposite force to challenge you.”

Truly, they were words to live by. That law of motion held weight even now, millions of years after the start of the war and decades after its supposed end. Because currently, Arcee was hundreds of miles from Nevada, barrelling down an empty human road, and there was no equal or opposite force in the galaxy that could stop her. 

One deca cycle–one week–had passed since Optimus and Bumblebee died. Not once had the pain of their loss receded, and putting distance between her and the base hadn’t helped. In a way, she was glad; her pain wasn’t supposed to fade. Arcee was meant to carry it to her grave and beyond, and that was exactly what she planned to do.

Her tires kicked up dirt as she roared down an unpaved road. Her navigational systems, augmented by human GPS technology (courtesy of Agent Fowler), told her she was somewhere in upstate Montana. The name meant nothing to her, but it was far from the base, and that was good enough. The two-wheeler had a plan, one she’d devised before, and she didn’t want the others to interfere. That was why she disabled her Autobot signal: so she couldn’t be tracked. No one would find her; not Ratchet, not Bulkhead, and not… not Jack.

_ Jack. _

The name brought on a rush of feelings, both god and bad. They hadn’t parted on the best of terms, and like so many other recent happenings, it was her fault. Arcee would miss him, even if he wouldn’t miss her. Primus, she hoped he would miss her. Their last conversation was awful, and she knew she messed things up, but… no. It would be better if he didn’t miss her, if he blamed her for everything. It’d be easier on them both, and Jack didn’t deserve to be bogged down by the femme’s baggage.

Still, what she’d said to him… Arcee could remember every vivid detail of their exchange. Every word, every facial expression, every slight alteration of body language. She hadn’t fully resolved to leave until after that conversation. In a way, she was grateful, even if it resulted in the dissolution of her third and final partnership. It allowed her a strange sense of peace and serenity amidst all the chaos that encompassed her processor. Not because of the situation, but because of what she was going to do. She was ready for what was to come, and it was a nice feeling.

It was the only nice feeling she had left. And yet, it was leading her down an all too familiar path. 

There was a time, after Tailgate’s death, that she considered suicide. It was… not fleeting, but it passed. About a week after Cliff and ‘Bee ( _ both gone, both gone, my fault) _ sprung her from Airachnid’s lair, she trekked to the top of the Hadrian Bluffs, a mountain ridge extending over the Simanzi valley. She stood there for over an hour, staring at the ground far below. In the end, she didn’t overcome the urge on her own. What saved her life wasn’t a concerned friend, but a comm. call from Prowl detailing her next mission. She decided to honor her partner by selling herself to the Autobot cause, never deviating from the line of duty. 

The only person she ever told about that day was Cliffjumper, and he was gone. Maybe she and Jack could have reached that point, that closeness, where she could have talked to him like she’d talked to Cliff. But that would never happen, now. It seemed like the universe wanted her to be alone. And if that was its goal, well, it succeeded. Arcee was isolated on a relatively unknown planet and almost everyone she’d ever cared about was dead. 

Her fuel pipe creaked, and she groaned. She’d been driving non-stop for the better part of three days. If she didn’t stop soon, she’d join her partners sooner than she wanted to. 

The femme transformed as she came upon a ledge overlooking the distant sunset. No humans were around to see her, and she liked it that way. She left to be alone, not to be gawked at. 

Arcee eased herself to the ground, giving her joints a much needed break. There were worse spots to rest. The ledge she was on gave her a splendid view of Earth’s natural beauty: scarlet rays of sunlight bathed everything in soft, warm splendor. A massive forest of trees stretched from the foot of the mountain she sat on to the distant horizon, where it was met and ended by another mountain, this one part of a range. White-capped peaks provided a glaring and yet wonderful contrast to the green forest and orange sun. Arcee couldn’t help but smile at the sight. Even if it was for just a moment, the wonder of nature took her mind off of her many failings. There was nothing like this back on Cybertron.

She sat there for some time until her legs stopped burning and her fuel pipes felt better. By then, the sun had vanished behind the distant mountains and the moon took its place. She got to her pedes and stretched, loosening up her joints. The femme took one last look at the forest below, feeling oddly wistful–or perhaps not oddly at all. Sitting on that ledge was the closest she'd come to peace since Optimus and 'Bee died. It reminded her of a time long past, of another ledge, another valley, and another dead friend. 

Arcee turned her back on the alluring forest. The wistfulness snapped away, vanishing as quickly as it came. It left behind a vague sense of longing, a desire for warmth and friendship and something,  _ anything  _ other than what she had. But that too faded over time, and she was once again left cold and hollow–half a person, like some key part of herself was missing. 

In a way, something was. 

She transformed; the mechanical sound of living metal echoed throughout the valley. The two-wheeler continued down the dirt road. She didn’t make it very far before a sudden ping on her comlink interrupted her. She stopped, confused–she'd turned her comlink  _ off _ –and listened, but it wasn't Bulkhead, Ratchet, or Jack, like she'd expected. It was a Decepticon distress beacon. 

The femme transformed back into robot mode, a hard and viscious look in her eyes. This was exactly the kind of opportunity she’d been waiting for. Sure, it was odd that the wounded ‘con would broadcast their situation on an open channel, but Arcee wasn’t going to complain. 

She uploaded the signal into her HUD and downloaded the coordinates into her navigational systems. They pointed off the beaten path and back towards the dark forest that waited hungrily behind her. The two-wheeler looked down at it. Where just moments ago it had seemed calm and tranquil, with the added taint of the Decepticons it seemed threatening and gloomy. But that wouldn't stop her. The little femme worked out the safest place to land and jumped off the mountain road without a second thought. 

Arcee landed on her pedes, shaking the ground beneath her. The trees rattled and shook, dropping leaves from their branches. A flock of birds–she didn't know what kind–took flight, cawing at the disturbance. Under better circumstances, she might have watched them soar through the air. But these weren't normal circumstances, and she wasn't here to birdwatch. She had a Decepticon to hunt. 

She began weaving through the trees, closing in on the signal. She was careful to move soundlessly–she'd once been a scout, and then SpecOps after that; stealth was her forte–she needed to catch her target unaware. 

Arcee's plan was simple: wait for a ground bridge to open up near the distress beacon, run through it, find Starscream,  _ kill  _ Starscream, and fight every other 'con on board until either they were all gone or her spark gave out. She was angry, she was  _ hurt,  _ and she was going to take all her frustrations out on the filthy 'cons that stole Optimus and Bumblebee from her. 

The femme drew nearer to the distress beacon and crouched down in a patch of bushes to avoid detection. In front of her was a massive stone chasm, very similar to the trail of destruction left behind by Airachnid's crashed starship. Arcee didn't dwell on that thought; this wasn't the same place, no matter how similar, and Airachnid was a rogue 'con. No way would she send an open-channel distress beacon. That was a good way to get killed.

The two-wheeler waited silently for around twenty minutes, growing more and more agitated as time went by. The Decepticons should have arrived by now–a ground bridge rescue party didn't take long to assemble. What was taking them so long? The signal was still active–she checked–so why weren't any 'cons arriving? Did they suddenly not care to rescue their own? Sure, they were always brutal and unforgiving, but distress signals were usually given a response. 

Just as Arcee was about to break cover and see if the injured 'con was still alive, the response arrived–just not the one she was expecting. Voices pierced the relative silence of the forest–human voices. She crouched lower as the organics made themselves known, emerging from the shadows. 

They weren't like any she was familiar with. Not at first, anyway. Decked out in goggles and black combat suits, carrying weaponry that seemed far beyond what the rest of the planet had proven capable to make, these humans were clearly outfitted for combat. And considering that they were here, at the site of a Decepticon distress beacon, they must be-

Everything that happened next was a blur, like she was watching a movie stuck on fast forward with no way to change the settings. The lead human spoke, and she recognized him as Silas. A dark shape suddenly just- just  _ materialized  _ behind them, and then they were stuck to the walls with webs, and that  _ voice,  _ that sickening,  _ sickening  _ voice, and then Arcee was screaming, launching herself from her cover, blasters firing, blades swinging, face and eyes wild.

There were screams. Guns went off, Energon splattered, bones crunched, limbs tore. The fight lasted no longer than a few minutes. At its conclusion, an unnatural silence descended upon the forest, a suffocating and all-consuming quiet. It was the same kind of quiet that a hunter might have heard after firing their rifle. The same kind that a soldier would experience after his first kill. 

From the stone cavern, there was nothing. And the only thing worse than the gunshots was the silence. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time on Breaking Point: Bulkhead's back! And maybe Starscream too? I don't know. We'll see how things go.
> 
> Plz review if you enjoyed–or even if you didn't. I really like reading your thoughts, and they help me improve as a writer and as a storyteller.


	6. Wistful Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bulkhead finally confronts his emotions. Jack reflects on his partner. Arcee is sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit more emotional stuff before I push the plot. The next couple chapters will probably focus less on the characters and more on the world around them. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and don't forget to review! 
> 
> This chapter isn't quite as... polished(?) as the other ones are. I don't know why, but there's just something I don't like about it. But if I try to satisfy myself, it'll never get posted. So instead, I'll just send it out into the world and hope for the best.

It wasn't there. 

Arcee’s spark signature wasn’t there. 

It was supposed to be a simple process. Raf got the base’s computers up and running. Bulkhead showed him where Ratchet’s tracking system was. The kid loaded it up--the Cybertronian upgrades didn’t slow him down in the slightest--and got to work, but it didn’t take long to discover that there were only two active signals, and both of them were in the room. 

It wasn’t the good news they’d been hoping for. Jack just kind of fell over, sinking to the ground and resting his head on his knees. Miko sat down beside him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. It was touching, and Bulkhead was once again reminded of humanity’s resilience. Miko was powering through this awful series of events better than anyone else, and the wrecker was beyond grateful for it.

Because he wasn’t feeling up to comforting Jack himself. Right now, he was staggering away from the kids--well, slowly walking, really. He’d tried being strong and wearing a tough face. For a while, he’d even thought he could do it. But this was too much. Three close friends in a row was too much, especially after finding that picture of them all in Optimus’s quarters. Bulkhead was a hardened war veteran, a survivor of countless campaigns against the Decepticons, but even centuries worth of loss and hardship didn’t… didn’t… 

He wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t ready for any of this. This wasn’t a situation he was prepared to deal with, even if he’d been confronted by it before.

So he stood quietly off to the side, letting the humans have their space and making sure he had his. It was almost funny, in a sick sort of way, that the wrecker of all ‘bots would be the one who couldn’t confront his emotions. His processor wasn’t whipped into some kind of frenzy or crashing down around him. It was just… blank. The only thing he really registered was a thick blanket of some unidentifiable emotion--sadness, grief, guilt, who knew? 

Bulkhead wasn’t thinking. He was barely feeling. That all-consuming  _ something  _ keeping everything at bay was overwhelming, deafening, horribly loud and bombastic, like a tidal surge that crashed over and eroded away at a beach until there was nothing left. There were no thoughts, no emotions that weren’t drowned out. Bulkhead wasn’t thinking. He just  _ was,  _ and it was awful.

He could process the death of a friend. He  _ could. _ It was so many so quickly that made him hurt so badly. Maybe seeing Arcee could have helped, but she was gone too--if not offline, then AWOL with a deactivated signal. The second option would have obviously been better, but with no way to track her she would remain unfound. Gone with no way to contact her, practically dead herself.

So he was alone, and would stay alone. That seemed to be the theme of the past week. 

“Bulkhead?”

Something pierced through his mental haze--a voice, something to latch on to. Something to focus on. 

“Bulkhead, are you okay?”

The whiteness of the void softly faded into the familiar metallic greys of the Autobot base, leaving behind a weird kind of rush in his head, like water running over fingers. Lightheadedness, he realized as he sunk to the ground. That was the word. He was lightheaded. 

“Bulkhead!”

The wrecker blinked woozily and looked in the direction of the voice--that is, down. Expecting Miko, he was surprised to see Raf standing near his stretched-out pedes, a concerned expression adorning the boy’s face. 

“Raf?” he asked, suddenly feeling more than a little self-conscious about collapsing to the ground for no apparent reason. It wasn’t like he’d  _ meant  _ to, but still. 

“Yeah, it’s me,” the boy said. He too seemed self-conscious, but about what? Bulkhead couldn’t say.

The two stood--or sat, in the wrecker’s case--in awkward silence for a moment. Raf didn’t seem to know what he was doing or why he was there, which the wrecker couldn’t fault him for. They’d never really talked much, even after Bumblebee died. Of course, after that, Raf hadn’t talked much to anyone. 

“Did you, uh, need anything?” Bulkhead asked.

The human averted his eyes. He opened his mouth and made as if to speak, but his words seemed to die in his throat. Eventually, he stopped and sighed. “It’s just… you were standing over here by yourself, and you looked upset."

That was unexpected, but not unwanted. Raf taking the time to ask if he was feeling alright was touching, probably more so than it should be. “Ah, kid,” Bulkhead replied, managing to call up a smile, “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Honestly, the way things have been going, I should be asking you how you’re doing, not the other way around.”

That seemed to stump the little boy. “What? Why?”

That wasn’t the answer Bulkhead was expecting, and it really didn’t help him form a response. He fumbled with his words for a few seconds--Arcee was better at pep talks, better at listening, better at all of this--before he managed to say, “You… you and ‘Bee were close. Real close. I know it hit you hard.”

Words continued to be his one true mortal enemy. They made Breakdown look like Rewind. 

Raf didn’t say anything in response, which allowed the wrecker to think about what else he wanted to throw out there. This might be his one opportunity to talk to the kid about ‘Bee, and while Bulkhead was still grieving himself, he knew that Raf desperately needed to talk to someone. 

“Look,” he said, “I… I get it. I know what you’re going through. Losing a friend is always rough, and it never gets any easier. But… maybe, y’know, if you ever wanted to talk about it, I can-”

Raf cut him off. “Thanks, Bulkhead, but I’m fine. Really.” The wrecker looked down at him, surprised and ready to object, but the boy had his back turned. He was walking away. He was walking away! 

He turned back for just a moment, though, a somber expression on his tiny face. “I’m glad you’re alright,” he said, and then he was gone, trudging his feet back towards the computer. Bulkhead watched him go, at a complete loss for words. 

The only thought he could conjure up was that Raf was even better at dodging emotions than the wrecker was, and that maybe, just maybe, the two of them had more in common than either of them realized. 

\-----------------------

Jack could still hear her voice, as piercing as if she was standing right next to him. That was all he could think about--or rather,  _ she  _ was. He missed her so much, and her absence hurt more and more with each passing minute. He didn’t know how they’d gotten to this point. He hadn’t meant to become best friends with an alien robot soldier with super obvious signs of PTSD. Like everything else since he met the Autobots, it just kind of happened. 

And continuing that pattern, her disappearance was very sudden and unexpected. Looking back, though, maybe it shouldn’t have been. He should have seen it coming. Arcee wasn’t the most emotionally stable Autobot, and after she told him about Tailgate, he probably should have expected that she wasn’t dealing with Optimus and Bumblebee’s deaths too well. But he was hurting too, and, well, things didn’t work out.

He drove her away, except this time he wasn’t along for the ride. It was something Jack couldn't really forgive himself for, even if he knew that it wasn’t technically his fault. Their argument, their last conversation, was awful. It left both of them reeling--he knew that now. He should have known then, but he was too wrapped up in his own head to worry about her. The shame of it was killing him, but the guilt wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that it could have all been avoided, if only either of them had really listened to the other.

\---------

_ Arcee had been avoiding him for three days. Three straight days. She’d ignored his calls, locked him out of her quarters, and brushed him off on the rare occasion he caught her roaming around the base. Well, today that ended. Jack was determined to make her talk to him. It wasn’t fair of her to shut him out. Optimus and Bumblebee were his friends too, even if she’d known them longer, and he wanted--needed--to see her. She was his best friend. They were partners. Or at least, they were supposed to be. _

_ It took a lot of effort and even more patience to catch her unawares. He took his cues from the two or three other times he’d managed to catch the femme outside her quarters, which meant he was hiding in the Energon storage room at three in the morning, fighting off sleep like his life depended on it. In a way, it kind of did. If he didn’t talk to Arcee soon, he was going to burst.  _

_ She was just… well, she was the only one who he could really talk to about all of this. He didn’t know Bulkhead very well, and Ratchet wasn’t talking to anyone.  _

_ The doors opened after about half an hour of waiting, and sure enough, Arcee walked silently in. Once she was past him and close to the Energon stockpile, Jack emerged from the shadows. But before he could say anything, he blanked. How should he announce himself? He didn’t want to spook her--he knew from his mom that startling a war veteran wasn’t a good idea--but if she didn’t know he was there, how was he supposed to- _

_ “I know you’re there.” _

_ Ah. Problem solved.  _

_ Arcee was looking straight at him, one hand on her hip and a disinterested look on her face. Actually, maybe she wasn’t looking  _ at  _ him. It was more like she was looking  _ through  _ him. Her eyes were boring holes through his chest, and it made him antsy.  _

_ “Uh, hey Arcee! I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” Jack said. “I… I guess I just wanted to know how you’re doing. I haven’t seen you much lately." _

_ The two-wheeler's stony expression seemed to falter ever so slightly, but that could have just been wistful thinking, because the next time he blinked it was back as it was. "I'm fine, Jack." _

_ The teenager crossed his arms. “Could have fooled me.” _

_ “I’m  _ fine,  _ Jack,” Arcee said forcefully. “Drop it.” _

_ Maybe it was the sleep deprivation talking, or maybe he was actually angry. Whatever it was, it made him drop any attempt at peace. Jack came to his partner in an attempt to feel better about, well, everything. What right did she have to keep shutting him out when he was hurting too? _

_ “If you want me to drop it, then talk to me!” he exclaimed. His emotions boiled over at the surface, exploding outwards all at once. Like a flame, though, they burned hot and quickly dissipated, leaving behind nothing but timbers. Jack sighed, suddenly feeling guilty. “Please, Arcee, I- I don’t have anyone else.” _

_ “Sure you do,” Arcee said, suddenly sounding very cold. “Go talk to Miko or Raf. Go talk to Bulkhead. Go talk to Ratchet. Go talk to anyone but me, because I don’t want to talk to you.” _

_ Jack recoiled, surprised and more than a little hurt. Some of that earlier anger returned. “How can you say that? You’ve been avoiding me. Ignoring me! You’re selfish, Arcee. You’re selfish because you’re so wrapped up in your own head that you forgot that the rest of us are hurting too.” He narrowed his eyes. “Or maybe you just don’t care.” _

_ Arcee went quiet. So quiet, in fact, that Jack began to wonder if she would say anything at all. Just as he was about to conclude that she was going to ignore him, she spoke. And once she started, she didn’t stop.  _

_ “You have no right to talk to me that way,” she said, her voice little more than a frightening whisper. It chilled Jack to the bone; when Arcee was angry, she usually didn’t hold anything back. He’d never heard her use this tone of voice. It was unnerving.  _

_ “Arcee, I-” _

_ “No right,” she interrupted. She was glaring at him now. “I’ve lost more than you could possibly imagine. You have  _ no idea _ what I’ve been through. I’ve fought for millions of years in a never ending battle. Almost everyone I’ve ever been close to is dead. So if I need to withdraw myself and take some time off, I have every fragging right to. Bumblebee and Optimus were my friends.  _ My  _ friends. I’ve known them for longer than your species has existed. So whatever you think you’re feeling is inconsequential to what I’m going through. To what Ratchet and Bulkhead are going through.”  _

_ She stopped, but only for a second, just long enough to make Jack think he had the chance to interject. But she cut him off, and then she was back at it. “I’ve spent the last few years fighting to protect your insignificant backwater planet. My best friend died in defense of your people. And now, so have two more. So don’t you dare call me selfish. Don’t you dare.” _

_ The room fell silent, and Jack was left speechless. He’d never heard his friend rant like that, and he realized that she was right. “Arcee, I’m sorry.” _

_ "Save it." _

_ Her tone was sharp, bitter, like a rusty blade, and it cut through him just the same. He fell silent. They both did.  _

_ As with most silences, this one didn't last long. But it wasn't Jack who broke it.  _

_ "You know your problem, Jack?" Arcee asked bitterly. "You’re insensitive. Not just about death, but about everything. You don’t understand just how much of a liability you are. How difficult it is to fight a war and babysit at the same time.” _

_ The femme wasn’t stopping; she was on a roll. She glared at him, and Jack found himself completely unable to speak. Every single word spoken was like a hammer being taken to his heart.  _

_ “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve had to keep you alive in the middle of a battle because you didn’t listen to me?” she continued, voice rising in both intensity and volume. “Too many, Jack. You’re always in the way, always causing problems, and I’m sick of it. You’ve been a thorn in my side for months, and it’s time you realized the truth: you’re a liability. You force me to divert time away from my mortal enemies, the ‘cons that destroyed Cybertron, my home, to save you from a situation you got yourself into. You’re a liability and I’m sick of it.” _

_ There was nothing Jack could say. How was he supposed to respond to something like that? He felt that he couldn’t, so he made a decision he would come to regret: he ran. He turned around and ran from the room, shame, guilt, pain, anger and sorrow welling up inside him and threatening to spill over. His footsteps sounded unsteadily throughout the hallways as he fled from his partner. _

_ Behind him, completely alone, Arcee’s servos shook. She fell to her knees, completely drained of energy.  _

_ The next morning, she was gone. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arcee gets mean when she's upset. Meanwhile, Jack is just overwhelmed. 
> 
> Next chapter is back to the 'cons, and the one after that will probably introduce a new Autobot.
> 
> Review plz


	7. Scream screams at Stream, Stream screams at Scream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starscream welcomes Slipstream back aboard the Nemesis. Their reunion isn't exactly happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but I've lost my drive and I wanted to get what I had out. Hopefully the next chapter won't take as long as this one did.

The  _ Nemesis  _ had not received fresh troops in a long time, unless one counted Megatron, which Starscream didn't. It was part of the unfortunate reality of a seemingly ceaseless conflict, one which had stretched on for millions of stellar cycles and had no end in sight. As a mechanical race, Cybertronians could not reproduce, and without the AllSpark, no new sparks emerged from the Well. Thus, their numbers were finite. Every Decepticon lost was a soldier never to be replaced, and so the war had whittled their numbers until all that remained was a legion of Vehicons and a sprinkling of capable forged mechs. 

It was a tragedy, really, that the Decepticons had fallen so far, but it was the inevitable destiny of a species composed of robots. The Great War merely accelerated their decline. 

In essence, there were no new soldiers because there were barely any left. So Slipstream's message was well-received amongst the crew (read: Knockout and Breakdown), despite Staracream's personal misgivings. 

They weren't  _ professional  _ issues, loathe as he was to use the word. Slipstream was a fine soldier–no, a perfect soldier. Respectful, capable, intelligent, and all sorts of other things that often lead to greatness. Unfortunately, the two seekers had a bit of history, and it was sure to come up if they had to work together. 

The past usually found a way to affect the future, and old grudges never stayed buried. One way or another, Slipstream's presence would dredge up one of those grudges. He'd be lying if he said he was excited about that. 

It wouldn't be a problem if he could just deny her access to the ship. But for that, he'd need a reason, and the femme's records were impeccable. Starscream was no Soundwave; he couldn't hack the Decepticon database and change them around. That left telling the truth, which was out of the question. Knockout enjoyed gossip far too much, and he'd never live it down. The doctor never had a proper respect for authority, and he wasn't afraid of Staracream like he was of Megatron. To make things worse, Knockout was the only medic aboard, which gave him a certain immunity. It was infuriating.

All of this and more is why Starscream found himself in the  _ Nemesis’s  _ hangar bay with Knockout and an envoy of Vehicons, impatiently and dreadfully awaiting the arrival of a femme he thought he’d never see again. He spent most of that time visibly agitated, snapping at the slightest disturbance and twitching anxiously. His wings fluttered. His face was marred by a permanent glare. Occasionally, he even found himself drumming his digits against his arm. 

“Something on your mind, my liege?” 

Starscream turned his withering glare on to Knockout, who had approached silently from behind. The doctor held up his servos placatingly, but his devilish smirk told the seeker all he needed to know about his subordinate’s intentions. Knockout was a diva--a drama queen, a gossip femme. It was like he had a sixth sense for detecting private information; he fed on it, and Starscream’s troubles seemed to be his next meal.

“Nothing that concerns you, doctor,” the seeker grumbled. “Believe me when I say that you’re the last person I would trust with any secrets of mine.”

“No secrets,” Knockout agreed. He smirked again, and his deep red eyes flashed with hidden malice. They’d always reminded Starscream of a land mine. Danger was there, always present, always assumed, but never fully visible. Unless, that is, you knew how and where to look. 

Starscream did. He didn’t like what he saw. 

“But believe  _ me  _ when I say that you aren’t being as discrete as you think you are. All the pacing, tapping, grumbling… it’s rather distracting, Screamer. Rather  _ obvious,  _ wouldn’t you say?”

The seeker’s already angry face intensified. His red eyes narrowed to slits. “Choose your next words carefully, doctor,” he growled. “This game you’re playing? I invented it. Don’t try and get into my head. You wouldn’t last five astroseconds in there.”

Knockout’s suave facade faltered for the first time, but what took its place wasn’t the chastised look Starscream was hoping for. Instead, he scoffed and did a good job of looking thoroughly unimpressed. “What crawled up your exhaust port and died?”

“Ugh,” the seeker replied grumpily, turning back towards the viewport. “Would you believe me if I said it was Slipstream?”

The doctor made a show of thinking about it. “No,” he said finally. 

Starscream sighed, some of his anger dissipating. He’d often considered himself akin to a supernova when he was angry; his energy and rage were a star, a gargantuan mass of fire that could go off at any moment. When it finally blew, the supernova, the outburst, was legendary and awe-inspiring, provided you weren’t in its radius when the event occurred. 

But all stars have a center, a core that causes the supernova in the first place. And for him, that core was Slipstream. His rage may be unleashed upon all in sight, but it was Slipstream that ignited the explosion.

In that moment, he very briefly felt bad for Knockout. It was one of those pesky “outwards” emotions that bothered him every once in a while--something that momentarily caused him to focus on someone other than himself.

Like most of his outward emotions, it passed quickly.

Regardless, if he was going to be a better leader than Megatron, he needed to maintain decent relations with his officers. So perhaps alienating his second-in-command was a bad idea; it was, after all, exactly that mistake that cost their former master his life. 

Starscream’s face scrunched into a grimace. His eyes narrowed again, this time not from anger but because of apparent pain. Knockout seemed concerned, but before he could say or do anything, the seeker spoke and stopped him in his tracks. 

“I… am sorry, Knockout. I just have a lot on my mind.”

Well  _ that  _ was certainly the hardest thing he’d ever done. It was beyond uncharacteristic of him, and his SIC seemed to agree; the doctor was frozen, mouth agape. He’d been taken completely off guard. After all, the last thing anyone would expect from Starscream was an apology, especially one that was genuine. 

Genuine enough, anyway. He did mean it, yes, but only to the extent that it was useful. Apologies were powerful weapons if one knew how to effectively wield them, and Starscream did. By making Knockout feel as if he was respected--he ignored a small voice in his head that told him he  _ was _ \--he would serve loyally. The last thing the seeker needed was his own treacherous second-in-command.

“Erm… apology accepted, my liege.” He took a moment, and then added, “Thank you.”

Apparently, Knockout still wasn’t entirely certain about the sudden leeway he’d been given. Starscream was mildly amused; the cocky doctor, always so sure of himself, always so confident and verbose and smooth, was stumped. He’d savor this feeling. It wasn’t often that his SIC was caught off-guard. 

“You’re quite welcome, doctor,” Starscream purred, voice smooth as silk, and Knockout uncomfortably turned away. The seeker grinned; he’d won this round.

Before he could make good on his word and enjoy his small victory, he was interrupted. First by a small ping on a nearby console, next by the distant sound of engines, and finally by one of his Vehicon technicians, who had gone to the beeping console. “Lord Starscream, a Decepticon craft is approaching. They’re transmitting landing codes.”

Starscream grimaced. “Identify,” he said, even though he already knew who it was. 

The Vehicon didn’t skip a beat, voice as monotone and fast as any good little drone. “Lieutenant Slipstream, sir.”

_ And so it begins. _

“Wonderful,” he lied, speaking through gritted dentae. “Grant her permission to dock.”

The drone complied, and a few kliks later, a moderately sized frigate was connecting to the  _ Nemesis.  _ It was maybe one fourth the size of his warship, lightly armed, and designed in a way that just screamed  _ seeker, Vos.  _ It was definitely Slipstream’s ship. Everything about it--the light weapons, the sleek frame, the engines, the elegant design--was her. Was of her. 

Some of his anger fizzled away, dissolving in the solvent of his own cluttered mind. Apprehension took its place. The dread remained, but it was different, mutated; mangled with hope, made foregin to his processor. Slipstream had always provoked a myriad of strange feelings within him. That hadn’t changed. 

He wasn’t sure if he liked that or not.

The frigate’s entrance ramp opened with a hiss, drawing everyone’s attention. If it were Starscream arriving, he’d have added some steam, maybe a mechanical whine or a threatening noise. Something dramatic. But this wasn’t his ship. None of those things happened. Instead, the ramp lowered and three femmes walked--one of them strutted--down its length. He recognized all of them.

The first was black and orange, wearing crests that reminded him far too much of the Autobot two-wheeler. The only thing louder than her paint job was her personality, and she flashed him a grin that fully displayed how seriously she was taking her new assignment. 

_ Flamewar. _

The second was the exact opposite of her counterpart, sporting a quiet purple and teal color scheme and a pair of mismatched eyes. One was grotesquely large and clearly modified, while the other was a normal red optic. She glared at Starscream when she saw him. 

_ Shadow Striker was as cheerful as ever.  _

The final femme stole the show. Her colors were the same as Shadow Striker, but she had more teal and less attitude. Her face was carefully blank and her posture was stoic. Unlike her compatriots, she had two null rays attached to each of her arms: the traditional weapons of a seeker. Yes, Lieutenant Slipstream was still every bit the perfect soldier. She even had her old body type, the one that most others had abandoned. The one that Starscream, Thundercracker, and Skywarp all used to wear. 

The hangar bay was silent for a few astroseconds as the universe waited to see which seeker would speak first. For a short time, neither of them did. They stared each other down, both of them predators, neither one prey. An eternity seemed to pass; the tension in the air was so thick that Megatron himself wouldn’t have been able to break it. 

Finally, Starscream spoke first. The leader should set the example, after all. “Slipstream,” he greeted, “Welcome aboard the  _ Nemesis.  _ I’m so  _ glad _ you decided to join us.”

Slipstream stiffened even further, if that was at all possible. She seemed slightly uncomfortable, which Starscream found amusing. It was good to know that she was suffering as much as he was. 

_ Let her squirm. _

“Of course, Commander Starscream,” the femme replied. “I’m so… glad to be back here. Really, I am.”

Starscream narrowed his optics. She was lying, but he didn’t comment on it. Slipstream was an obvious liar, provided one knew her mannerisms, and he did. Plus, there was the outdated term of “commander”. She didn’t know of Megatron’s fate, of course, but it grated on his nerves regardless.

“And we are glad to have you,” he lied back. “Your services will be most welcome. Oh, and those of your little entourage as well. All three of you will have a splendid career aboard my warship.”

Slipstream’s eyes widened. The tiniest smirk blossomed on her faceplate. Behind her, Flamewar’s grin turned comical, like she thought Starscream was joking. Shadow Striker’s expression didn’t change. 

_ “Your  _ warship, Starscream? I doubt Lord Megatron would agree with that.”

The seeker smirked dangerously. “And where  _ is  _ ‘Lord’ Megatron, I wonder? It’s so unlike him to be tardy.”

Beside him, Knockout stifled a smirk.

Starscream couldn’t blame him; the whole situation was rather funny. But he couldn’t lead Slipstream on forever. He needed to sell her a cover story she’d believe before she decided to look into it herself. Or worse, she could leave and tell the rest of the Decepticons that  _ he  _ killed Megatron in a bid to gain some power for herself--which he did, but still. Neither of those were favorable outcomes. Slipstream and her cronies were here now, and he needed to make things work with them.

Slipstream looked at him suspiciously; perhaps he'd said too much too soon. To his surprise, though, she didn't comment. The suspicion on her face faded away–Starscream was certain it wasn't gone, merely buried–and she returned to her stoicism. “I wouldn’t blame him for wanting to avoid basking in your repugnant presence for any length of time.” She paused, and the corner of her mouth twitched upwards into a smirk. “Sir.”

_ Ah, so that's how it's going to be. Very well. _

Starscream narrowed his eyes. “While I am in command of this vessel, I expect nothing less than your respect.”

“But you aren’t,” Slipstream replied. “Unless Megatron offlined without anyone finding out-”

“Which he did,” Knockout interjected. All eyes turned to the medic, none of them more surprised than Starscream, who was trying to burn a hole through his SIC’s head with his eyes. The three femmes looked surprised and confused. “Say what now?” Flamewar asked. 

Knockout grinned at his leader, but he at least had the decency to look self-conscious about it. “Apologies, my liege, but they’d have found out soon enough. I figured I’d go ahead and burst the bubble.”

The seeker groaned, but he didn’t have time to express his annoyance with his subordinate. Slipstream was currently demanding all of his attention. Starscream looked to her after sending one final glare in Knockout’s direction. She didn’t seem much affected by the news, and neither did her posse. “Impossible,” she said stubbornly. “Impossible! No Autobot could ever defeat Lord Megatron.”

_ Who told you it was an Autobot? _

Starscream somehow managed to stop himself from grinning. He’d always thought himself a good actor; now, that sentiment was proven true. Any joy he felt at Megatron’s death was completely (mostly) masked by an expression of faux mourning. “Indeed, lieutenant. The Autobots did not defeat him--they assassinated him.”

Shadow Striker spoke for the first time. Her voice was just as flat and neutral as he remembered, with perhaps a slightly rougher edge to it. “Explain, Starscream.”

He glared, and she stiffened. “Sir.”

Better. Despite their personality differences, Shadow Striker had always been respectful of her superiors. Starscream wished that Slipstream could have picked up on that during their apparent vorns together, but she was just as impertinent as he remembered. 

A small voice in the back of his processor whispered that she was only disrespectful to him. The seeker chose to ignore it. 

He looked to Knockout, who shrugged at him. They’d gone over the story a million times in preparation for this very moment. Breakdown, who also knew of their little conspiracy, had been briefed of the basics. They’d gone through several drafts, each time trying to find which one sounded most believable. The final version, the one they settled on, was the story delivered to the Vehicons. It was the story about to be delivered to Slipstream and the others. 

Starscream clenched his fist against his chest dramatically. “Lord Megatron was horrendously injured by the explosion of a space bridge he commissioned. Soundwave stayed by his side in the med-bay as he recovered, but one day, the Autobots boarded the warship and assassinated them both from the shadows. I nearly perished myself, and would have were it not for Knockout’s timely intervention.”

Knockout shrugged casually. "What can I say? I'm a natural hero."

"Some hero. Lord Megatron was extinguished by Autobots in  _ your med-bay,  _ and you're claiming victory."

Starscream looked to the femme, surprised; she spoke matter-of-factly, like she did about pretty much everything, but there was an underlying anger in her voice that he hadn't heard in a long, long time. Not since the… incident. Her red eyes were narrowed to tiny slits. "Why was the fleet not informed? The death of our leader is something that should have been noted."

"Former leader," Starscream was quick to correct. Flamewar snorted, and Slipstream glared at him. The seeker shrugged unapologetically. "I am in command now, my dear. We kept things quiet to better maintain the transition of power."

The lieutenant’s glare grew fiercer, but she said nothing. Starscream knew she hated being called “dear”; it was something he may or may not have been responsible for. Using it here was akin to a test--a test of respect and obedience. A test of restraint. Surprisingly, she’d passed. She didn’t take the bait--she was respecting his authority. She always was a good soldier, but actually restraining herself in a conversation with him? That was new.

_ Interesting. Perhaps you’ll be useful after all, “old friend”. _

“Of course,” Slipstream finally said, face contorted and dentae gritted.

“Of course?” Starscream prodded, grinning.

“Of course,  _ Lord Starscream.” _

“Better,” the seeker said. 

This was going to be a very interesting partnership.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will focus on Bulkhead (again), and after that we'll get back to the 'cons. Or I could switch them. Let me know if you'd rather see Starscream and Slipstream first, because I know this chapter didn't exactly cover all the bases with new characters.
> 
> Thankfully, this is a fanfiction I'm writing for fun(?), so I don't need to hold myself to super high standards.

**Author's Note:**

> Get ready to be sad, guys, because sadness and depression is like 90% of this fic. Well, for the Autobots. Starscream and the 'cons are going to have so much fun that it might be infectious.


End file.
